I Won't Leave You Alone
by Just Another Introvert
Summary: After arriving at Alexandria, Carl feels like an outsider. Ron never had an easy life, and the apocalypse just made it worse. I'm awful at summaries, I'm sorry. Follows basis of season 5 with a few major changes. Contains Ron/Carl. Rated for violence and gore because it IS the apocalypse after all.
1. Normal Teenage Shit

DISCLAIMER: I do not own The Walking Dead, any of it's characters, or any of it's original plot line. I wish I did…

Alexandria makes Carl Grimes extremely uneasy and ever since the group has arrived he's felt like a complete outsider. Literally and Figuratively. The entire place just doesn't seem normal to Carl. Then again, normal for Carl is rotting corpses trying to eat him, scavenging for food, living on the road, relying heavily on his group which has become his family, and sleeping with one eye open and with a gun or knife clenched in his hand in case something were to happen. Alexandria is a suburban haven with children playing without fear in the streets, neighbors hosting events and housewarming parties, and cook outs and picnics taking place in grassy back yards. To Carl, that's bizarre. It's not just how the people live, it's how Carl is now capable of living. It's about how he can now take a warm shower whenever he wants. It's about how he doesn't have to go to hunt or scavenge for food when he's hungry, he can just go into the kitchen and open the fridge. It's about how he can walk down the street without a weapon and go to sleep in a warm bed instead of curling up on the floor of some abandoned diner. He's not used to this, not used to this at all. He doesn't have to go to bed scared, cold, filthy, and in an unfamiliar place with an empty stomach. None of Alexandrians can even begin to relate to him or what he's been through. Carl feels like a wild dog thrown into a pen of puppies.

The people of Alexandria seem to feel that way too. They whisper about 'Rick's Group' and watch them all out of the corners of their eyes. It's not like the Alexandrians aren't welcoming, because they are. They bring casseroles and sheet cakes to members of 'Rick's Group' and are friendly as can be, but they see them differently. Henceforth, 'Rick's Group' is 'Rick's Group' instead of just ordinary Alexandrians.

Carol manages to fit right in, sliding right into place with her pans of lasagna and ugly floral sweaters. Carl somewhat envies her chameleon abilities since he's having so much trouble with the transition. After six days, Carl is still spending his time in the house, trying to get used to not having to look over his shoulder every two seconds. Old habits die hard though, and every time someone walks in the front door his hands fly to his holster and he whips around, ready to shoot.

After two weeks, everyone else seems to have found a place in Alexandria: His dad and Michonne are made deputies, Aaron starts inviting Daryl to accompany him on runs, Glenn and Tara start going on runs with other groups, Father Gabriel starts holding masses, Noah starts working with Reg, Maggie becomes Deanna's advisor, Rosita and Abraham and Sasha start to do night watch with Spencer, and Eugene sort of disappears all day.

This leaves Carl solely with his baby sister Judith. Not that Carl minds, he loves Judith and actually enjoys spending his days watching her. He has her schedule down to a science: she wakes up around 8:30, an hour after everyone leaves to start their days. Carl usually feeds her some apple slices or mashed up peaches for breakfast. After breakfast, he changes her diaper before taking her on a mid-morning walk. Around noon he feeds her lunch and promptly afterward she takes an afternoon nap. Once she wakes up, she's full of energy and wants Carl to chase her around the living room or play hide-and-seek out in the yard (Carl hates playing hide-and-seek because the notion of not knowing where Judith is scares him) After an hour or two of playing, he'll change her again, tell or read her a story, and then the two of them will put together one of her baby puzzles with the chubby, thick pieces or he'll watch her play with some stuffed animals that Aaron gave her. Sometimes, he'll take her to the little park in the middle of the town and they'll sit in the gazebo and color or nap in the grass. Around 6, everyone gets home and eats dinner together.

Carl takes care of her so much that he wouldn't be scared of calling himself a 'Judith Expert'. He knows she won't eat watermelon or cantaloupe. He knows that she hates baths and gets fussy whenever he tries to give her one and she sleeps best curled up in someone's lap or nestled into a blanket. He loves taking care of her, it's easy and fun for the most part and it makes him feel good to take care of her. It makes him wonder if this is sort of what it would be like without the dead walking around.

There're downsides to spending all of his time with Judith though. Whenever she gets fussy or cries it kind of sucks, but that's not the issue. The real issue is that Carl wants someone to talk to and Judith isn't an ideal candidate. Sure, she babbles incoherently sometimes and she's a pretty good listener, but the conversations are very one-sided. Carl will rant to her when he's pissed off or sad or just feeling particularly out of place, but he never really gets an intelligent response. Everyone else is always busy and he doesn't really know any of the Alexandrians, nor does he wish to talk to them because none of them will understand.

Besides his sudden feeling of desolation and uncertainty with his new surroundings, he notices some of the Alexandrians giving him weird looks when he's out with Judith. Most of the adults smile at him with appreciation, but some of the kids stare at him and whisper amongst themselves, like they think it's weird that 'the kid from Rick's Group' doesn't talk to anybody and is out on a walk with and talking to his baby sister instead of one of them. Carl doesn't care what these people think of him, he doesn't give two shits how they perceive him, but when they gape at him and then talk about him while he's standing RIGHT THERE really pisses him off. Carl doesn't really socialize with the kids in Alexandria. There are 3 kids his age that he's met. The day his group got to Alexandria, Rick sent him over to the Andersons house to meet them, in hopes of helping Carl make some new friends around his age. He remembers that there were two boys named Mikey and Ron and a girl named Enid. He and Enid are sort of friends. She's the only other one that knows what it's like to be outside the walls, but she's not around very much. She disappears for periods of time on a regular basis, but when she's around she chats with Carl and sometimes invites him to go with her over the wall. Carl doesn't really talk to Mikey, but Ron usually makes time to talk to him and they'll occasionally play video games together. But Carl isn't really close to any of them. Enid's gone too much for them to really bond and Mikey and Ron are too ignorant of what the outside is like in Carl's opinion. They're too damn clueless to really understand him.  
—

"Hey Carl, I don't have any lookout shift duty tomorrow and no ones going on a run, so I'll be free. Do you want me to watch Judith?" Tara offers as everyone sits down for dinner.

"Uh, no thanks."

Tara looks at him funny. "Really? Are you sure? I mean, I really don't mind."

"Yeah I'm sure. It's no big deal," Carl quickly replies, trying to end this conversation before it gets awkward and personal.

"Why don't you want to let Tara take over babysitting duties for the day? She's capable of watching Judith and you can go have fun," Maggie says, taking a seat beside Carl.

"Yeah kid. I think ya should take a day off. You've been cooped up in here playin' housewife for the last three weeks now," Daryl agrees.

Carl internally groans as Daryl, Maggie, and Tara all look at him, waiting for his response. He doesn't feel like explaining himself.

"I just don't want Tara to waste her day off watching Judith, that's all," Carl says with a shrug.

Tara laughs. "Aw, thats really sweet of you Carl but it's totally fine! Lookout duty isn't exactly action-packed or strenuous around here and I can't imagine watching Judith is backbreaking labour by any means."

Carl looks down at his plate as he tries to come up with another excuse. "Well….."

"C'mon Carl, take a day off. I don't think Judith'll take offense to ya slackin' off for a day," Daryl urges, giving the kid a smile.

"Yeah, take a day off. Do something fun!" Maggie says.

'Like what?' Carl thinks exasperatedly. 'Enid's been gone for two days now, so she's not around to hang out with….'

"Don't you want a day off?" Tara asks, looking a little confused.

Carl doesn't want to hurt her feelings. It's not that he doesn't trust her, because he does. He just would rather watch Judith himself. "Sure, but…well I'm not entirely sure what'd the hell I'd do with myself," he admits.

Daryl laughs and shakes his head. "You're the only kid I know that turns down a day off cuz he doesn't know what the fuck to do."

"You wouldn't know what to do? Why not just go hang out with some of the kids around here?" Maggie suggests.

Carl sighs and is tempted to say, 'if only it were that easy'. Since he hasn't been in an environment where he is constantly surrounded by new people to accommodate with, he has no social skills what so ever and is actually rather timid when it comes to talking to strangers and people he doesn't know well. So, he'd feel more comfortable taking on a herd of walkers than going up to Mikey or Ron and asking them to hang out.

"Do you know the kids around here? I know you meant them the day we got here," Tara says.

"Yeah, I know them. I just don't know them….personally."

Daryl clucks his tongue in understanding. "Ah, I get ya."

Maggie shakes her head. "I understand where you're coming from, but you should get out, try to make some friends. This is our new home and I think you'd like it better here if you got to know some of the kids."

Carl shrugs. "I dunno, they're all really….oblivious about whats going on."

"Well, of course they are. None of them have ever been outside these walls."

"Yeah, and thats fine but I…I dunno."

"I think that you're just shy," Tara says with a teasing smile.

"I'm not shy!"

"Yes you are! You don't introduce yourself to people and you have a hard time getting to know people-"

"I do not have a hard time getting to know people!"

"Oh, ok you're right. You don't have a hard time getting to know people, you have a hard time letting people get to know you!"

"What you said makes no freaking sense. You repeated yourself and flipped the words around!"

"Nah, I think she's got a point, kid," Daryl says. "And it's not really your fault, what with the…lifestyle we've all been livin' the last few years-"

"I am not shy! If I were shy, I wouldn't be talking to any of you!"

"That's not true! You've had time to get to know us, let us gain your trust, and learn to love us. And you know, we've been surviving the end of the world together for awhile, so I guess that probably helped us bond pretty fast," Tara jokes, nudging Carl with her elbow.

Carl smiles. "Yeah, the life-or-death situation may have sped up the process a little bit. But I'm not shy."

"Then take the day off tomorrow and go hang out with one of the kids here," Tara challenges.

Carl's face pales as he realizes that he's been cornered. 'Fuck!' he thinks bitterly. Daryl and Maggie look at him as he bites his lip.

"That Enid girl and you hang out sometimes. Just hang out with her tomorrow," Daryl suggests.

"She's not in Alexandria right now. She goes over the walls sometimes and just sorta disappears."

"Then go do something with someone else! Take the day off and get to know them better! Enjoy yourself," Maggie says.

"We'll see…" Carl grumbles, getting up from the dinner table.  
—-

"Do you have a minute?"

Carl is in the middle of cleaning his handgun. He looks up to see Carol standing next to him.

"Yeah."

Carol takes a seat next to him on the sofa. "So…Tara told me that she's going to watch Judith for you tomorrow. That's very kind of her."

Carl nods and prepares himself. Carol always starts her talks off subtly and slowly builds up to what she's really trying to say.

"She also told me that you were reluctant to accept that offer. Can you tell me why that is? Most kids your age would jump at the chance to take a day off from watching their siblings."

"I'm not like most kids my age," Carl replies, going back to cleaning his gun.

"I know. You're much more mature and exposed to the evils of this world than most kids your age. But even you must be sick of spending all day changing diapers and picking up toys."

Carl doesn't respond. 'Why the hell do I have to explain myself? I just don't want to take a day off, is that such a big deal?' he thinks angrily.

"Is it because you don't trust Tara to watch Judith? I don't think that's it. You know what I think?" Carol asks, trying to coax Carl to talk. He doesn't comply.

"I think it's because you know that if you're not watching your sister, you're going to have to find something else to do. And I don't think you have the slightest clue of what to do with yourself."

Carl still remains silent.

"You know, you could go hang out with the kids here. They all seem pretty nice." She watches the boy begin to fidget slightly and knows that she's on to something. "Ah, but that's the problem, right? You're no good with social situations. You don't feel like you fit in here. I'm not going to lie to you, you don't fit in here. None of us do. Most of these people are ignorant sheep that don't have a clue as to what horrors have been going on out there. But you know what? You don't have to fit in. Just be a chameleon and try your best. I think it'll be easier for you here if you make a few friends."

Carl mentally curses Carol's amazing gift at figuring shit out as he slowly looks up at her.

"Ask one of the guys to play football or basketball."

"I can't play either of those."

She hums a laugh in her throat as she stands up. "You'll figure something out. I just think you need to socialize a little, for your own good. Your dad's worried about you."

Carl looks at her questioningly. 'Why's dad worried? We're safe now.'

Carol pulls back Carl's hat and gives him a chaste kiss on the forehead before walking away and leaving him to his own thoughts.  
—

"What's wrong with him?" Pete grumbles as Sam picks at his dinner.

Jessie sighs. "He's really picky. If its not cookies, peanut butter, chocolate, eggs, or toast he won't eat it."

Pete mutters to himself as he watches his younger son pick at the pasta in front of him. Jessie is thankful he isn't too drunk or he probably would've already gotten up and smacked the shit out of Sam.

"Sam, stop playing with your food," Jessie says, an almost pleading tone in her voice as she watches her husband slowly lose his patience and clench his fists.

"But I don't like pasta, mom!" He whines.

"Well, that's whats for dinner tonight. Either eat it or excuse yourself, but if you don't eat it there's no food for you until breakfast."

Sam petulantly mutters something, rolling his fork around on the table.

"What did you say?" Pete asks, dangerously calm like a viper waiting to lunge and sink it's fangs into an unsuspecting victim.

Sam's face pales and he shakes his head.

"No, what did you say to your mother?" Pete asks, starting to stand up. "She told you to either eat your dinner or scram. Pretty clear, don't you think?"

"Pete…" She mutters helplessly.

Ron watches his father start to walk towards his brother, and he feels sick to his stomach.

"What did you say, Sam?" He asks again, stopping in front of Sam's chair. He kneels down so that he's on the 11 year-old's eye level. "What did you say?"

Sam begins trembling and looks at his lap, eyes wide with fear.

"He didn't say anything," Jessie says.

Pete looks over his shoulder at her. "Was I talking to you?"

"Tell him, Sam. You didn't say anything," Jessie insists.

"Shut up Jessie," Pete growls.

"Dad, he didn't say anything. I was sitting right here next to him and I didn't hear anything," Ron says, knowing that he may as well have just dug his own grave.

Pete frowns and grunts angrily. He's opening his mouth to say something when there's a knock on the door.

"I'll get it," Jessie says, hurrying to the door.

Pete looks at both of his sons before slowly standing up. He keeps his cold hazel eyes trained on Sam.

"Pete, it's Nina! Her son just cut open his arm on some glass shards and needs stitches. Are you willing to do it now?" Jessie calls from the front door.

Pete exhales sharply, trying to compose himself. "Well, poor kid cant really wait, now can he?" He dryly jokes, headed to the front door.

Sam sighs in relief and closes his eyes. Ron feels a knot in his chest loosen and he slumps against the back of his chair. He reaches out and gently grabs Sam's shoulder. "You're an idiot, you know that right?"

Sam doesn't reply and just lets out another deep sigh.

Jessie returns to the table after Pete leaves. "You are the luckiest boy alive, Sam Anderson. What did I tell you about when dads home?"

"To be extra good and behave like Christmas is next week," Sam answers, looking guiltily at his mom.

"That's right. Was whining about what I served for dinner a smart move?"

Sam shakes his head.

Jessie sighs and sits back down at the table to finish her dinner. "Don't do that again, Sam. Ok?"

"Ok."

"Are you alright?"

"Yeah mom. I'm ok."

Ron stares at his dad's vacant seat and feels a weird ache in his chest. "Hey mom, I'm gonna go outside. Is that ok?"

"Sure. Just be back before it gets dark, ok?"

Ron nods before headed out the front door. Whenever he has a particularly awful day, he likes to go to the make-shift library, an air-conditioned garage full of bookshelves. He's admittedly not much of a reader, but it's calm and quiet in there. He likes to slump against the bookshelves, close his eyes, and take a nap or just keep his eyes shut and pretend that things are better and that he's somewhere else.  
—

The next morning, Carl wakes up and is about to go down the hall to get Judith out of her crib when he spots Tara standing in the hallway with his sister cradled in her arms.

"Morning, Carl. You excited for your day off?"

Before he can help it, he feels himself frown. "Uh, yeah."

"Good! Don't worry, your sister is in good hands. Now go have some fun!"

Carl forces a smile onto his face as he heads downstairs to get himself breakfast. Everyone greets him as he digs around in the fridge for something to eat.

"Morning," Rick says, pulling his son into a hug. "I'm about to leave for work. Have a good day, ok? Get outside and have some fun."

Carl laughs a little. "Ok, dad. You have a good day too."

Rick fondly ruffles his hair and smiles weakly at him before walking away. Carl notices that he stops and whispers something to Carol, looks back at him, whispers something else, then leaves. Carl can't help but feel his skin prickle in annoyance. He hates being uninformed. 'What the hell can't he tell me?' He wonders. He remembers Carol mentioning that his dad's been worried about him. 'But we're supposedly safe here,' he thinks again.  
—

After a quick breakfast,Tara all but kicks him out the front door with a cheerful, "Don't worry about us! Go have fun!"

Carl sulks down the street and mentally mocks her, thoroughly pissed off and feeling awkward as hell. What the fuck is he supposed to do? He could climb over the wall and go looking for Enid, but he knows that he needs to bring more than a handgun with him be able to leave the premise and survive. To get more weapons he'd have to steal from the armory, which would take a lot of stealth and patience and has severe consequences if he's caught. He realizes that it's just not worth it and that Enid can take care of herself. He supposes that he could go see where Michonne is patrolling and hang out with her, but if her and Rick are on duty together he knows that his dad will get pissed and ask why he's not off 'making friends' or 'doing normal teenage shit'. Maybe he could go steal some paint and graffiti the walls. 'That's normal teenage shit,' he thinks sarcastically with a smirk. He knows that he really shouldn't though, it's a small town and Deanna will definitely figure out that he did it. Then she'll tell his dad and his dad will kill him. He decides that it's not a great idea either.

As he walks down the street contemplating tracking down Daryl and begging him take him out on a run, he spots Ron walking down the street. 'This is what they want me to do, right? Talk to these people and find a place for myself? I could try talking to Ron, he showed me around when I first got here and he seems like an ok guy.'

Carl begins to walk towards the taller boy, trying to figure out what he's going to say to him once he approaches him. But as he gets closer, his heart starts to pound in his chest and he feels his palms sweat. His legs get weak and he slows down, his throat constricting and feeling tight. A sudden desire to turn invisible sets in and he's not sure if he wants to go up to Ron and talk anymore.

He's faced walkers, cannibals, and other awful things during his lifetime, but whenever people, ordinary harmless people, try to talk to him he starts feeling like this. He starts feeling this irrational fear. It isn't a completely new feeling for Carl, but he hasn't felt this way for awhile, not since the prison. When the residents from Woodbury started moving in, Carl was reluctant to talk to them and look them in the eye. He'd blush, sweat, shake, and sometimes have a strong longing to disappear when the new arrivals tried to speak to him. He wasn't afraid of them, not at all. He just felt funny talking to them. The funny feeling eventually went away after getting to know most of the new arrivals, but its been resurfacing ever since they've arrived in Alexandria.

"Carl?

Carl turns around to see Aaron standing there.

"Oh, hey Aaron."

"What's up with you? You're shaking," Aaron says, looking concerned. He reaches out to touch him, but Carl pulls away and feels his neck burn in embarrassment. The funny fearful feeling is still in his chest.

"Do you feel ok?"

"Me? Yeah…I'm just tired."

"You're shaking because you're tired?" Aaron asks skeptically.

"Yeeees."

Aaron can see how uncomfortable the kid is so he lays off. "Ok. Have you seen Daryl? Eric and I were looking over some old maps and we remembered this old super market on Route 89. I was thinking of taking Daryl with me as backup and checking it out."

"I think he went to the supply house to get some stuff."

"Ok, thanks," he says, giving Carl one last look over before briskly walking towards the supply house.

Carl sighs as he walks away and licks his chapped lips. 'Tired? That was a terrible lie. Like, a lie Glenn would tell,' he thinks, feeling stupid. He looks up the street and sees that Ron has vanished. "Great," he mutters. He groans in defeat and devises a plan: if he stays out of sight all day he can just lie to everyone and say that he hung out with Mikey or Ron. All he has to do is find an ideal uninhabited place to chill by himself all day. He recalls that the park is usually pretty empty, so he turns around and starts jogging there.  
-

He's right, the park is deserted. Carl smiles to himself as he leans back against a huge oak tree and stares up through the thick leafy branches. It's eerily quiet and he has trouble relaxing, expecting to suddenly hear a raspy moan and smell rotten flesh. His hand subconsciously drifts to his holster.

'You're inside the walls now. There aren't any walkers,' he reminds himself sternly. He can't help but reflexively look over his shoulder anyway. He tries his best to shake it off and looks around for something to do to occupy himself. The oak tree he was leaning against catches his attention. 'If I climbed up the tree could I see over the walls?' he wonders, looking up the tree trunk. The thought of seeing over the walls that both protect and imprison him makes him curious and excited. Before he knows it, he's climbing up the tree with a smile on his face, eager to see the outside world again. Carl manages to find a perch on a thick branch near the top of the tree. He has a clear view of the outside.

It's desolate besides a few stray walkers prowling around near the West end of the wall. He feels his heartbeat pick up as he watches them stumble around. If he focuses on them and the outside long enough, he can envision himself out there, running around with his gun, a knife, and a backpack of supplies. He can feel his legs burn as he runs across the grass, his hands curl around the hilt of his knife, and his muscles ache as he takes swings at the walkers. If he closes his eyes, he can see himself out there, taking out the walkers on the West end.

"Hey, squirrel boy!"

Carl opens his eyes and looks down to see Ron standing at the trunk of the tree, looking back up at him with an amused smile.

"What the hell are you doing up there?"

"Normal teenage shit," Carl shouts down to him.

"I don't think most of us normal teenagers climb up in trees and take naps."

Carl shrugs.

"Why don't you come down and I'll show you how to do some REAL normal teenage shit?"

Carl's pretty sure that that's an invitation to hang out, so he slowly descends from his branch to join the taller boy on the ground.

"Where's your sister?" Ron asks.

"At home. My friend Tara offered to watch her for the day," Carl says with a shrug.

Ron nods. "I was wondering where she was. Every time I see you around, you've got her with you. Anyway, follow me and I'll show you some real 'teenage shit'."

Carl nods and follows Ron down the street. 'Well, as long as it's not basketball or football,' he thinks with a grin.  
—

I've rewritten this chapter 4 times now and I'm still not sure that I like it. Ugh! Anyway, I hope to upload more chapters soon. Please feel free to tell me what you thought, but I beg you to be gentle with the criticism. Thanks for reading!


	2. Rhesus Monkeys

DISCLAIMER: I don't own The Walking Dead or any of its characters and original plotline. I also don't own any of the bands and artists referenced in this chapter.  
-

Ron hadn't really been doing much all day. He woke up and hurried to get out of the house because his father didn't have any patients scheduled until noon and was supposed to be home all morning. Ron just wasn't willing to spend all morning with him, so after breakfast he told his mom that he was going to visit Mikey and left.

Mikey has been sick with some stomach bug for the last week, so Ron just sort of sat on his bed and they talked for an hour before he noticed how tired Mikey looked. He felt bad for keeping him awake so he told him to get some rest and left.

He'd been pretty bored, so bored that he had actually considered going to the library to read. But as he was walking down the street, he spotted someone up in the giant oak tree. He stared at them like they were nuts and slowly approached the trunk of the tree. 'Who the hell climbs all the way up there?' He wonders. He assumes its Enid, because he knows none of the adults would do something weird like this, the little kids are too small and weak to pull themselves up, and Mikey is lying in bed sick. Upon closer inspection, he realizes that he was wrong, the person in the tree isn't Enid, its that 'kid from Rick's Group' Carl.

'What the hell is he doing?! He looks like a freaking squirrel!' He wonders. Carl is just sitting out on a limb with his eyes closed. His face looks perfectly relaxed.

"Hey, squirrel boy!" Ron shouts, trying to get his attention.

Carl opens his eyes and looks down at him.

"What the hell are you doing up there?" Ron asks.

"Normal teenage shit!" The Grimes kid replies seriously.

Ron can't help but laugh. "Most of us normal teenagers don't climb up trees and take naps."

He sees Carl shrug.

Ron has noticed how lonely Carl seems most of the time, just walking around with his baby sister for company. He feels a little bad for him and decides that maybe he should invite Carl to go do something besides sit up in a tree like a monkey. It's not like Ron has anything better to do anyway

"Why don't you come down here and I'll show you how to do some REAL teenage shit?" He offers.

Carl hesitates for a moment before beginning to climb down and Ron blushes, wishing that he had been more clear with his invitation. Ron smiles at him and is about to say something but something is off here. He notices that something's missing. Carl looks...odd but he can't figure out why.

"Where's your sister?"

"At home. My friend Tara offered to watch her for the day."

Ron nods. That's probably what seems off. Everytime he sees Carl, he's got a two year old in his arms or hanging onto his hip. "I was wondering where she was. Every time I see you around, you've got her with you. Anyway, follow me and we'll do real 'teenage shit'."

Ron starts to lead Carl back to his house. He guesses that its almost noon and that his dad should be gone by now, and if he's not he must be leaving soon. He half expects Carl to ask where they're going, but he's noticed that the shorter boy doesn't talk much.

"What sorta 'normal teenage shit' were you doing up in that tree?" He asks, still curious as to why Carl took the time and energy to climb all the way up there.

"I wanted to see over the wall," Carl answers.

"Could you?"

Carl nods but doesn't elaborate anymore than that.

Ron knows that he's probably going to regret asking, but he needs to know. He hasn't seen anything outside of Alexandria for almost two years now and he's dying to know what it looks like out there. His mom always tells him that there's no need for him to ever go outside, and that everything is dead, ugly, and barren. But he thinks that she's just afraid of losing him, so she tries to keep him in by making it sound bland and dead "What's it look like out there?"

Carl stops walking and looks down at his feet, thinking of a way to answer the naive teen's question. "Well...it looks worn and damaged, you know? Like an abandoned building sort of. A lot of plants have grown because there's no one around to trim bushes, cut grass, or chop down trees. Its kind of dreary looking too... but it's beautiful."

Ron doesn't exactly see how something 'worn out and damaged' can look beautiful, but he doesn't say anything because he hasn't seen over the wall himself. 'Maybe it's one of those things that you have to experience for yourself to understand,' he thinks, watching Carl scrape his boots across the cement nervously. "I haven't seen the outside since the apocalypse started," Ron admits.

Carl looks up at him and gives him this weird look. Ron can't tell if its a 'You're Lucky' look or an 'I pity you because you're unexposed' look. Whatever it is, it makes Ron feel odd, so he awkwardly clears his throat before saying, "C'mon. My dad probably left for work, so we can play videogames and eat potato chips."

"Do normal teenage shit?" Carl asks with a faint smile.

Ron nods and smiles back at him. "Yeah."  
-

Ron and Carl walk in silence to the Anderson household. Ron politely opens the door for him.

"After you."

Carl smiles at him and walks in, Ron following him. "Hey mom, I'm back!" He yells.

Jessie walks in from the kitchen. "You were gone for awhile, where were you?"

"I dropped over to see how Mikey's doing."

"Alright. Hello, Carl. Nice to see you!" She greets, reaching out to shake his hand.

"Hi Mrs. Anderson," Carl mutters, giving her a firm handshake to make up for his downcast gaze and quiet voice.

"Oh, just call me Jessie," she insists kindly. "Anyway, do want me to make you guys some lunch? I have some peanut butter or salami in the kitchen to make sandwiches."

"Uh, we're ok mom. We'll get ourselves something later, but thanks," Ron says, leading Carl up the stairs and to his bedroom.

"Ok, sweetheart! If you need anything, I'll be in the garage!" Jessie shouts after them.

"Ok, mom!"

Ron ushers Carl into his bedroom and closes the door behind them.

"So...what do you want to do?"

Carl shrugs. "Uh...what videogames do you have?"  
-

Carl admits to himself that maybe he is enjoying his day off and that maybe, just maybe, Tara and Maggie and Carol were all correct when they said that he needed to get out and socialize.

They play shooter videogames for awhile (which, ironically enough, Carl is awful at) then they raid the kitchen for chips, popcorn, chocolate bars, and other generally unhealthy snack foods. After a little bit of small-talk and snacking, they talk about their families a little. Ron ends up saying something about his music giving his dad headaches.

"You have a radio?" Carl asks.

Ron nods. "Yeah, and a shitload of CDs. Do you listen to music?"

Carl shakes his head. "I used to, but out on the road you can't really because you don't have any CDs and all the radio stations are gone..."

Ron nods. "I get it. Hey, wanna look through my CD collection? I might have some that you like."

Carl smiles. "Yeah, that'd be awesome."

"Follow me."

Carl follows Ron over to his bookshelf, which has several comic books, video games, and boxes crammed into it. Ron grabs a few of the boxes off the top shelf and sets them on the floor. Both boys sit cross-legged on the floor and look through the boxes of CDs.

"What kind of music did you used to listen to?"

"Older stuff. Like, I'd listen to music with my parents in the car and I learned to love what they listened to."

"Really? I like a lot of the older stuff too, like The Beatles and The Rolling Stones."

Carl smiles. "Me too. I think my favorite is Bob Dylan."

Ron sighs. "My mom is a huge Bob Dylan fan but we don't have any of his CDs. We used to have one, but she was playing it kinda loud one evening and dad came home...he wasn't very happy about it. H-he broke the CD...and our stereo downstairs...and h-he..." Ron trials off and starts to look uncomfortable, thickly swallowing and staring intently at the CD in his lap.

Carl looks at him sadly. He scoots closer and sets a steady hand on the other boy's shoulder. "Hey," he whispers soothingly.

Ron lets out a nervous laugh and looks up at Carl. "Hehehe...uh, yeah sorry."

Carl shakes his head. "Its ok. You...you can talk to me."

Ron grins at him. "That's nice to know. You can talk to me too. I've noticed that you're really quiet."

Carl smiles back at him before selecting a CD from the pile. "Can we listen to this one?"  
-

They spend hours laying side by side on Ron's bed listening to music. The volume is cranked up so loud that the walls vibrate and Ron's certain anyone walking by the house can hear their music. He doesn't care though, because Carl looks like he's really lost in the music and enjoying himself. His eyes are closed and his left foot absentmindedly taps along to the rhythm. He's serenely smiling, like he hasn't got a care in the world. They stay upstairs, listening to music and playing videogames until the sun sets.

"Hey, do you wanna stay for dinner? I think my mom made tacos." Ron offers.

"Sure, I just have to ask my dad first. Wanna walk to my house with me real quick?"

Ron nods, turning off his radio before the two head outside and down the street to Carl's house.

Carl walks into the living room to see that almost everyone is home for dinner except for his dad and Michonne.

"Hey Carl! Did you enjoy your free day?" Tara asks as she spots him walk in.

"Uh, that's sort of why I'm here. Can I eat dinner at the Andersons?" He asks, making puppy dog eyes at her.

Tara smiles and throws her hands up. "I don't see why not, but I don't think that's my decision to make. Your dad will be home in a few minutes, why don't you wait and ask him? I'd hate to piss your dad off because I let you do something he didn't want you to."

"It's fine, Carl. I'll tell your dad where you are, go have fun." Carol calls over to them as she plates dinner, dismissively flicking her wrist towards the door.

Carl beams at her. "Thanks Carol!" He shouts before running outside.

"Are you allowed?" Ron asks as Carl rejoins him on the front porch.

"Yeah. Lets go."  
-

Rick and Michonne both get home a few minutes late.

"Hey guys," Glenn greets them.

Rick nods towards him as he takes a vacant seat. "How is everyone?"

That statement provokes the usual evening chatter from everyone. People talk in the groups that they sit with. Tara, Michonne, and Rosita talk about how Tara's day with Judith went. Abraham, Glenn, Maggie, Sasha, and Noah talk about their lookout shifts. Eugene, Father Gabriel, Carol, Rick, and Daryl sit together, going over daily events and not staying on one topic for an excessive amount of time. After Daryl talks about the run he and Aaron went on, Rick goes to jokingly tell Carl that Daryl and Aaron have found enough chocolate pudding to last him the rest of his life in the warehouse, when he notices his son's absence.

"Have any of you seen Carl?" He asks, looking around the room in confusion and feeling slightly panicked.

"He's not here? That's funny, I saw him walk in the front door about twenty minutes before you got home," Father Gabriel says.

Carol smiles as she feeds Judith another spoonful of mashed potatoes. "No, he was here. He stopped by to ask if he could eat dinner with the Andersons."

"Really?" Rick asks happily, unable to bite back the smile that spreads across his face.

"Yep. I guess him and Ron hit it off today," Carol muses.

"That's good. Kid needed to get outta the damn house," Daryl says with a bark of laughter.

Eugene nods in agreement. "It is good. Kids his age need social stimulation. Actually, all living creatures do. There was a study done by Harry Harlow, in which he placed rhesus monkeys into isolation for extended periods of time. These monkeys that were kept in isolation exhibited social issues, and when reintroduced into a group, tended to drift off on their own and were unsure how to act around their own kind. The isolated monkeys also suffered from depression."

Daryl, Rick, Father Gabriel, and Carol all stare at him. Even Judith gives him an odd look.

"I'm just saying that its good for Carl to get out and reintroduce himself into a group of kids his age. All of us are suitable companions for him, but teenagers are practically their own species and he needs to be with his own kind sometimes to avoid ending up like one of Harlow's rhesus monkeys."

"Eugene?" Carol asks.

"Yes?"

"Please shut up."

"Yes ma'am."  
-

"Well, its very nice to have you with us tonight, Carl," Jessie says as she, Ron, Sam, and Carl all sit around the dinner table.

"Thanks for having me," Carl replies politely with a smile.

"Oh, its no big deal! I hope you like tacos and rice. If I had known that you were going to be eating with us sooner, I would've asked you what you like to eat and made that instead," Jessie says apologetically.

Carl would never complain about what someone prepared for him. Not only does he consider it rude, but after living on the road and never knowing when or what the next meal would be, all home cooked meals are a gift.

Carl shakes his head. "It's great, Jessie. Thanks. I like tacos alot."

She smiles graciously at him. "So...you're group has been here in Alexandria for almost three weeks now. You like it here?"

Carl nods.

"That's good. It must be really different in here than it is out there, huh?"

Carl looks down at his plate and nods again. 'You don't know the half of it,' he thinks to himself.

"I see your dad around a lot, but I don't see you very often. What do you usually do?"

Carl starts to feel a little uncomfortable. He knows Jessie isn't trying to make him feel this way, she's just a talkative friendly woman who's trying to get to know him, but all of her questions are starting to make his skin crawl.

"I watch my little sister most of the time."

"Ah, that's sweet. Judith, right?"

"Yeah."

"How old is she?"

"I sorta lost track of time out there. I think...she's two years old?" Carl says it like its more of a question than an answer.

Jessie nods.

Sam looks at Carl like he's crazy. "How did you lose track of time? You don't know how old your sister is? Do you know how old you are?"

Ron and Jessie shoot him a glare, mentally scolding 'Don't be rude!' but Carl racks his brain, trying his best to answer the question. "Well uh, out there there aren't clocks or calendars hanging around obviously. Alls you know is if its day or night and you can usually tell what season it is. I'm 14 or 15, because...I was 12 when everything started and its been going on for about two years, so...yeah."

Sam still looks at him dubiously. "If you didn't keep track of time, how did you know when stuff was gonna happen?"

Carl looks at him in confusion, not quite understanding the question.

"Like...I know that I go to bed at nine thirty and I get up at eight. And...Dad usually gets home late, but some nights he comes home at six and we eat dinner at six thirty. So without knowing what time it is, did you not know when to do stuff or when stuff was gonna happen?"

Carl sort of gets the gist of what he's saying. "No, you didn't know when stuff was going to happen. There really were no schedules, stuff just happened...when it happened. And you had to be ready for it."

"How can you be ready for something if you don't know that its going to happen?"

"You can't always be ready, but you can always think of the worst thing that can happen and you can prepare for that," Carl mutters. He wishes the words were his own, but they're not. When he was young and the apocalypse had just started, he remembers how scared he had been. After they had been through several shit storms, he had been shot, the group arrived at the farm, and Dale died and he felt personally responsible, he remembers that he would be too afraid to sleep at night and skittish around guns. His dad noticed that something was up and asked him what was wrong. Carl had tearfully admitted that he was terrified because 'there was no way of knowing what was going to happen and you can't avoid it no matter how hard you try' Rick had pulled him into a hug and told him that he was right, you couldn't be ready for everything, but if you thought of the worst scenario and were ready for that, you had a chance.

The Andersons all watch Carl look at his lap pensively, obviously deep in thought. Sam opens his mouth to ask another question, but Ron gives him a swift kick and a glare first.

"Sounds like it was rough out there Carl. Im glad you're here with us now," Jessie says, reaching out and touching the boy's shoulder.

Carl just sort of nods.

"Well, I made some cookies earlier this week. Do you all want some for dessert?" She offers.  
-

After some small talk with Jessie and some cinnamon cookies, Ron walks Carl home.

"You don't have to walk me home," Carl tells him as they make their way down the street.

Ron shrugs. "It's the polite thing to do. Besides, I don't mind. Its not a long walk."

Carl smiles to himself. "Well, thanks."

"For walking you home? You don't have to thank me, its no big deal."

"Not just that, for hanging out with me today. I know I'm not the most interesting person."

Ron laughs. "I think you're pretty fucking interesting."

Carl shakes his head, still smiling.

"Hey uh, I'm sorry that my mom and brother were asking all of those questions. They weren't trying to be nosy they're just...chatty I guess. But I get that the stuff they were asking was personal and if they hit a sore spot, I'm sorry."

"Its fine. I didn't even notice," Carl lies. Ron knows he's lying, because he sat there at dinner and watched Carl bow his head in embarrassment and fidget uncomfortably, but he doesn't say anything.

"Your moms nice."

"Yeah, but she's a little loopy sometimes. You know, she's one of those creative artsy people."

"Yeah I can tell. She makes awesome cookies."

"She does, and her brownies are even better."

They stop in front of Carl's house. "Thanks for educating me on how to do normal teenage shit. Never again shall I spend my days in the trees," Carl jokingly vows.

"Well, I'm happy to have introduced you into teenage culture," Ron replies with a laugh, smiling at the shorter boy.

"See you around," Carl says, awkwardly shuffling away and towards his front door.

Ron watches him walk away. "Hey uh, were you planning to sit in the trees again tomorrow?"

Carl turns around and looks at him. "I don't know. Why?"

"Well, we could steal chocolate and marshmallows from the supply house, build a fire, and make s'mores while listening to some Cobain."

Carl feels his heart beat faster. "That sounds awesome. I'll ask my dad tonight."

Ron feels his lips stretch into a relaxed smile. "Ok, I'll catch you tomorrow!"

"Yeah, see you then," Carl says, waving at him before running into his house.

Ron watches him disappear into the house before starting to walk home. He's in the best mood that he's been in for weeks. He whistles a simple tune as he strolls down the street.  
-

"Whoa, I don't think that I've ever seen a smile that big on your face," Michonne teases as Carl runs in the front door and flops down on the sofa.

"Oooh! He's smiling?!" Tara asks excitedly, flying into the room with Judith in her arms.

"Sure is," Michonne says, watching as Carl tries his best to STOP smiling. He's unsuccessful and just ends up in a fit of giggles.

"Oh my god, he did have a good time! See! What did I tell you, Carl?!" Tara jeers happily.

"Oh, you're back kid. Did ya have fun?" Daryl asks as he walks into the room.

"You bet he did! Look at that smile!" Tara says triumphantly.

Daryl grins as he watches Carl cover his face with his hands and laugh. "Yep, looks like he's in a good mood."

"So...what'd you do? How did dinner at the Andersons go?" Michonne asks.  
-

"You sure seem to be in a good mood," Jessie says as she observes her older son.

Ron shrugs and continues to sit and play a board game with Sam.

"Yeah, usually you just mope around and bitch about shit," Pete slurs as he watches his sons play Clue.

"Maybe there's nothing to bitch about," Ron replies.

Pete grumbles at his smart ass answer but doesn't move to hit him.

"Ron had a friend over today," Sam says, rolling the dice. "I forget what his name was, but he was nice and he had a cool hat."

Pete looks at his wife questioningly.

"Ron had Rick's kid over today, Carl," she whispers.

Pete suddenly looks a little bit pissed. "Rick's kid?"

Jessie nods, not looking up from her book.

Pete laughs bitterly. "Ain't that sweet. You and Rick fostering a friendship between your boys. While they're off blowing up bottle rockets and tossing around a football, you and Ranger Rick can sit in the kitchen and talk. Have some coffee maybe. He'll let you babble on about your new water paints and watch you with a dreamy look in his eyes."

Ron frowns and feels his heart sink. Why does his dad have to ruin everything? He knows his dad is convinced Rick is in love his mom, but he doesn't understand why him hanging out with Carl has to have anything to do with it. Its not like Rick ate dinner with them or like Rick even came over with Carl.

Jessie looks at her husband in disbelief. "Pete, Rick didn't even come over with his son-"

Pete raises and eyebrow. "Whatever. Before you know it, he'll be setting up things for our son to do with Carl over at their house, and he'll invite you over too."

Ron sighs and bites his bottom lip as his dad roughly pushes past him and heads into the kitchen to get another beer.

"Mom, why's dad so mad?" Sam whispers.

Jessie smiles weakly at him. "He's just...worried that Ron isn't having the right people over."

Ron rolls his eyes at her. 'Reeeaaally mom? It sounded like he's scared that you've got the hots for Rick and that you two are gonna bang on the counter while Carl and I do stereotypical teenage boy stuff,' he thinks.

"Is Carl not the right kind of person to have over? He was kinda weird and quiet, but he seemed nice," Sam whispers, looking confused.

"Carl's fine," Ron replies before his mom can say anything. "Actually, we're gonna hang out by the library tomorrow."  
He looks at his mom, silently challenging her to say 'no', but she remains silent and simply sighs.  
-

After awhile of Tara, Michonne, and Daryl interrogating Carl on what he did during the day, Judith gets fussy. She spots her older brother and squirms around in Tara's arms, trying to get to him. Tara gives in and hands her over. Carl decides to take her out on the front porch for awhile.

He's in the middle of telling her a random story about a lonely theoretical dog that thought it was a squirrel and lived alone in the trees until another dog convinced him to come down from the treetops and showed him how to be a dog, when Rick comes out on the porch.

"So, I overheard everybody inside talkin'. They said you got home and had a really good time. Care to tell me what happened today?" He asks with a smile, taking a seat beside his children.

Carl grins. "Well...I went over to the Andersons and played some videogames with Ron. FYI, I suck ass at videogames. Anyway, he also has a radio and a bunch of CDs, so we listened to music. It was awesome because I haven't listened to music besides Beth's singing for so long. Just the rhythm and the beat...it was amazing and I literally lost myself in it. Then he asked me to stay for dinner and Carol said yes, so we ate tacos and Jessie and Sam had a lot of questions for me, but it was fine. We had some cookies for dessert, which were good enough to give Carol a run for her money."

Rick smiles at him. "Sounds like you had a good time."

Carl nods. "You know what, I really did. I honestly thought it was going to suck, but it was great."

"Are you and Ron friends?"

Carl really wants to say yes, but he's nervous to. If Ron doesn't see them as friends, that sucks and makes it awkward as hell, so he just shrugs.

Rick nods. "Well, I'm really glad that you went out and had a good time today."

Carl smiles at him. "Me too."  
-

Long after Carl has fallen asleep, Rick is still up. He sits downstairs and relaxes on the sofa.

"Did you talk to Carl after he got home?" Carol asks from the doorway.

Rick nods and opens his eyes to look at her. "Yeah, he had a great time today. He got to be a normal kid for once."

Carol smiles. "I think you know what this means."

Rick looks at her in confusion. "What?"

"You can stop worrying about him! Ever since we got here, alls you worry about is Carl having a hard time adjusting and fitting in. That was a reasonable fear, I was worried about him too. I mean c'mon, he'd lived out there for years and seen and done things no one should ever have to, and the people in here haven't even killed a single walker. But, from the looks of it, he's found someone to hang out with. If this Anderson kid takes Carl under his wing and reintroduces him into civilization, he'll be fine."

Rick sighs heavily and nods. "I was worried about him. Like Eugene said about the monkeys at dinner, Carl hasn't been around people like this. He isn't used to civilized people. He's been out there in isolation,and I was worried that suddenly throwing him in here was going to be psychically hard on him, you know?"

Carol nods. "I completely understand. I was getting really scared when he started spending all of his time in here with Judith."

Rick groans. "Oh man, that scared me too. I was happy he was taking care of his baby sister, but it made me think that he was never going to get out there and adjust himself to a normal lifestyle with friendly people and a safe environment. It made me fear that being out there so long had permanently set him apart and made him feel like an outsider."

Carol nods. "I thought so too, but he went out there today and he found someone."

Rick nods and smiles. "I'm still a little concerned, but today definitely gave me hope."


	3. Proper Anderson Art

DISCLAIMER: I am not Robert Kirkman, so I do not own The Walking Dead.

"Did you sleep well?" Michonne asks Carl as he makes his way into the kitchen for breakfast.

"Yeah. I didn't hear Judith cry all night."

"That's because I went into her nursery last night when she cried and took care of her."

"You didn't have to do that Michonne. I can-"

"I know you're capable of taking care of her, but you were really tired last night. Figured I could handle it."

Carl smiles at her as he pours a bowl of cereal. "Thanks."

She smiles back. "You're welcome."

They eat their breakfasts in silence for a few minutes before Judith starts fussing. As Carl goes over to Judith and starts to feed her breakfast, he remembers Ron's offer from the previous evening.

"Hey, uh...is it ok if I take Judith out with me today?"

"What do you mean? Out over the wall?! Hell no!"

"No, no! Of course not, I'm not fucking crazy. I had some stuff I wanted to do outside today and I was wondering if I could take her with me."

"Sure. But I'd ask your dad," Michonne says.

Carl nods. "Alright. Hey, did you see that awesome new camera that Rosita-"

"Morning," Rick grunts as he enters the kitchen.

"Good morning."

"Morning, dad. Hey, is it ok if I take Judith outside today? There was some stuff I wanted to do over at the Andersons and I was wondering if I can take her with me."

"I don't see why not," Rick replies, pouring himself a cup of coffee. "As long as you know where she is at all times and you can see her, it's fine."

Carl smiles to himself and finishes his cereal. "Cool. I'm gonna go get dressed."

As he runs up the steps, Rick smiles and does a slow dramatic fist pump in the air.

Michonne grins at him. "What's that for?"

"Im just happy is all."

"Really? What ever is making you so happy must be really kick -ass awesome since it deserves a fist pump," she teases, taking a bite of her toast.

Rick chuckles. "Yeah, it is kick-ass awesome."

"Care to tell me?"

Rick sighs. "Well, I think I mentioned to you a few nights ago that I'm concerned about Carl. I'm worried that he won't ever adjust to being in here and that he'll feel out of place and lonely."

"Oh yeah, you told Carol, Daryl, and I that a few nights ago. Well, as you can see, he seems to be making a few friends."

"Yep, and its sort of a relief to see him get out."

Michonne smiles. "It is. I was a little worried for him too, but he seems ok. I mean, he's got plans for today and he was out with a friend yesterday. You've got quite the socialite on your hands," she jokes.

Rick laughs. "Yes my son, the boy who can't say hi to strangers while on a walk and who gets fidgety while engaging in a conversation, is a socialite."

The front door bangs shut and the two of them turn around as Maggie walks into the kitchen. "Good morning! Hey, Glenn and I are both off today and were wondering if we could watch Judith for the day. Is that alright?"

Rick and Michonne both chuckle. "Fine with me. I'd ask Carl though. I mean, it's his day that's affected if you take Judy, not mine," Rick says.

"Ask me what?" Carl asks as he walks down the steps, placing his worn sheriff hat on his head.

"I was wondering if you'd let Glenn and I watch the baby for the day," Maggie says.

Carl shrugs. "Sure. I mean, just gives me another free day."

Maggie smiles and walks across the room, scooping Judith up out of her high chair. "Thank you."

"Sure. Just let me go pack her a bag of the essentials," Carl says, turning to go back upstairs.

"The essentials?" Maggie and Rick ask at the same time, staring at the boy indecorously.

"You know, diapers, food, blanket, pacifier, toys," Carl explains. "The stuff she needs on a daily basis."

"You could've just said that," Rick mutters with a teasing smirk.

Carl rolls his eyes at him before running back upstairs.

Maggie excitedly smiles down at Judith and bounces her in her arms. "Glenn and I are so excited to try our hands at parenting. We already set up a play area in the living room and put up a safety gate by the staircase."

Michonne raises an eyebrow. "Babies are cute and all, I get it. But...taking care of them is hard. Tara volunteered to do it because she really wanted Carl to have a day off. Why do you and Glenn want to do it?"

Maggie smiles wider. "Now that we're in a safe secure place we're thinking that maybe we can start our own family."

Rick smiles and Michonne lets out an excited whoop. "Really? That's amazing," Rick says, patting Maggie on the back and smiling warmly at her. "That's really amazing. When do you think you're going to try for a baby?"

"Soon. But we want some experience with Judith first," Maggie explains, kissing the baby atop her head.

Michonne pulls her into a hug. "That is great. Congratulations!"

Maggie smiles. "Thanks. Do you two think that you could keep it a secret though? It'll just be more fun to tell everyone later if its a surprise and easier to forget if...things don't work out."

"Sure, we'll keep it to ourselves, but try not think of it like that. This place is safe. I honestly believe that you'll be able to start a family here. I have faith in this place," Michonne says reassuringly.

Maggie nods and smiles. "You're right. I'm sorry, its just hard to always think positively after everything that's happened. It seems like everytime something good happens to us, it falls apart and is ruined rather quickly."

Rick looks at her sympathetically. "I get it. I think we all feel that way, but you know what? Whenever I think everything's gone to shit and there's no hope, I look at my rays of sun. My rays of sun are you, and Michonne, and Daryl, and Glenn, and Carol, and Sasha, and Rosita, and Tara, and everyone else in our family. All of you show me that I can go on, and that you'll be here with me to push us forward. My brightest rays are my son and my daughter. I look at Carl, and I think there must be some sort of chance for all of us to survive. If my little boy, my innocent boy, has made it and is thriving and adapting we must all have the power in us to evolve and survive. And my baby girl, she fills me with hope for a better tomorrow. She gives me faith that there may be hope of safety and security for her one day. For me, she's the lifeline of a peaceful safe world where we can all live without fear. So Maggie, before you give up, look at Glenn because he should be shining like the sun."

"That's beautiful Rick," Maggie breathes, getting teary eyed. She gives Judith another kiss and smiles sadly, wiping the tears on her cheeks. "That's really amazing."

Rick smiles humbly and nods. Michonne looks at him with respect and admiration. "That was beautiful," she agrees, gently touching his arm. "You've got a good, strong mindset."

Carl ruins the emotional moment as he bounds back down the steps holding a backpack full of diapers, baby wipes, and some stuffed animals and puzzles. He tosses a few cans of baby food into the bag and helps Maggie sling it over her shoulders. "There's enough food in there for two meals and a snack," he says. "If she gets fussy, give her the stuffed giraffe. Its her favorite and it usually calms her down. If she starts to make a weird kicking motion with her feet and gurgle quietly but not cry, she's tired. Sometimes, you need to swaddle her up in a blanket and hold her for her to go to sleep."

Maggie nods and reaches down to give Carl a one -armed hug. "Thank you, Carl. Since Glenn and I are taking baby duty today, you should go out and have fun again. Go make plans with...Ron right? His names Ron?"

"Yeah. Actually, we sorta made plans last night when he walked me home. I was gonna take Judy with me, but I don't have to now since you and Glenn are gonna play house with her."

Maggie jokingly gives him a little shove before wishing them all a good day and walking out with Judith.

"So...what kinda plans did you and Ron make?" Rick asks casually as he downs his coffee.

Carl shrugs. "Not anything in particular."

Rick nods. "Alright. Well, I gotta go. You have fun, ok?"

Carl nods as his dad pulls him into a hug before leaving. Michonne gets up and ready to go too. "Don't get into too much trouble without me," she says, punching him lightly on the arm.

Carl grins and gives her a shove. "Im not making any promises."  
-

Carl feels awkward and sort of needy going over to the Andersons himself, so he sits in the family room for awhile and absentmindedly tosses around a tennis ball.

Around noon, there's a knock on the front door. "Its unlocked!" Carl yells, throwing the ball off the wall and catching it on the rebound.

He looks over his shoulder to watch Ron walk into the room. "What's up?"

"Not a lot. I see you're still missing your Judith-unit today."

"Yeah, Glenn and Maggie wanna watch her for the day. So...looks like I'm free again."

Ron smiles. "Cool. You still up for robbing the supply house of all it's Hershey bars and marshmallows then making a fire?"

"Sure, if you're still up for it."

"Yeah, c'mon," Ron says, grabbing Carl by the wrist and leading him outside.

The two of them jog to the supply house, whispering conspiratorially back and forth about how this heist is going to work.

"You know how the supply house works, right?"

"No, what do you mean?"

"There's a huge chalkboard in there that lists everything they have in inventory and the amounts. There's a second huge chalkboard with everyone's name on it. Whatever you take, you have to write it beside your name and how much of it you took. Olivia counts all the stuff at the end of the day and makes sure what was signed off lines up with the inventory."

"How the hell do we do this?"

"Well, my dad stole a bottle of sherry once, so I don't think Olivia counts accurately."

"Alright, so we'll take a subtle amount."

"Do we sneak in through a window?"

"No. If someone sees us, that looks really suspicious."

"We could just casually walk in and scope it out first, see how many people are in there before we do anything."

"That's a good plan, but what if someone is in there? Do we wait them out?"

"No, we'll just maneuver around them. Wait til their backs are turned before we grab anything."

They stop in front of the supply house. "If someone asks, we're getting toiletries and bread," Carl mutters.

"Got it," Ron replies as they walk inside.

To their relief, the supply house is virtually empty. The only people in there besides them are Eric and Aaron, who seem to be picking up their weekly groceries.

"Hey guys," Ron says, waving their way.

Eric and Aaron both smile politely at them. "Hi guys. What's up?"

"Nothing much," Ron says with a shrug as he and Carl wait for the two of them to finish picking up their supplies and mark off what they take on the board. "What're you two doing?"

"Nothing all that interesting, getting our groceries for the week," Eric replies, bagging a few cans of soup. "I make dinner and clean the house. Aaron's the one who does 'interesting' things," he teases, giving his husband a mocking look.

Aaron snorts. "I haven't really been up to much lately myself. I took Daryl out on a run to a warehouse yesterday, but it was a smooth trip without any complications really."

"It's still more interesting than making a pot of chili and helping Mindy repair her sink," Eric replies.

"Its safer though."

Eric shrugs. "I miss it out there. And it isn't safer in here! Mindy is a scary bitch that just yells at her husband and gossips about the neighbors and I personally find the oven intimidating."

Aaron looks over at him and laughs. "The oven is intimidating?! I may just have to find a braver partner who doesn't cower before our kitchen appliances!"

Eric laughs at him and dramatically pretends to stab himself in the chest. "My god, the dejection!"

Carl can't help but smile as he watches the two of them laugh at each other and playfully taunt one another. He remembers when his mom and dad used to be stupidly in love and do stuff like that; all the times they'd bake together his mom would jokingly smear icing in his dad's hair and his dad would throw handfuls of sugar on her and all the times his dad would pretend to tackle her onto the couch and the times his mom would act like she was trying to hit him over the head with her skillet. Carl sighs. He really misses his mom, and lately he's been feeling particularly sad about her death. Maybe it's because he's had more time to think about it now that he doesn't have to solely focus on his survival. He thinks that's it, because he's having more restless nights in his warm bed than out on the road, most nights he wakes up almost in tears with Beth, Hershel, Dale, or his mom on his mind. Sometimes, if he's not really doing anything, his mind drifts to his deceased loved ones and he feels his heart begin to ache. Every once in awhile, he'll forget they're dead. A few days ago he went to tell Tyreese about Sasha getting a promotion on night watch, when he remembered that Ty is gone.

"Anyway, aside from my husband denying my life being absolutely terrifying, what're you two doing?"

"Running an errand for my mom," Ron answers with a shrug, looking bored.

"Alright, well, we'll leave you two to your 'shopping' then," Aaron says as he and Eric start to walk out. As they leave, Aaron quickly grabs both boys by the shoulders and leans down to whisper in their ears. "The best way to get away with it is by signing off what you took out on someone else's name. Even out the number of what you take and distribute it realistically between me and Eric or only take a small amount. Olivia doesn't really count, she estimates. Do it either way so you won't get caught."

Neither boy has the slightest idea of how the hell Aaron knows what they're up to, but he obviously knows, because he shoots them a cocky smile and pats them on the back as he leaves.

"How the hell did he know? We barely said anything," Carl mutters.

"I don't know, that's really creepy. I hear Aaron's really good at reading people, so maybe he picked up on it because we DIDN'T say much or maybe we looked guilty?" Ron suggests.

Carl shrugs. "At least he doesn't seem to care and he gave us some pointers."

Ron chuckles as he starts pawing through a cabinet. "Yeah, I don't think he's going to rat us out."

Carl starts to look around too, digging around the freezers.  
"Hey, do you know how long Eric and Aaron have been together?"

"Uh...there were already married when the apocalypse started, so I'm not sure. Why?"

Carl shrugs. "Just wondering. They both seem like pretty cool guys."

"Aaron and Eric? Yeah, they are. Aaron brings back really cool stuff with him from his runs. I mean, he obviously brings back necessary shit like food and medical supplies, but he's always thinking about everyone else too. He brought Sam a used DS system and charger once, and he brought me a few of my CDs, like my Bob Marley CD and my Simple Plan CD. Eric is really nice too. Whenever something breaks, like the dishwasher or the AC, he fixes it."

Carl nods. "It's really awesome what you have here. You know, the whole domestic scene?"

Ron pauses in his chocolate bar search and looks over his shoulder at the hatted boy. "Did you miss the whole neighborhood thing?"

"I didn't really think about it out there, but now that I'm here, I realize that I kinda like it. I like being able to see a walker-free street every morning. But...I miss some aspects of being out there."

"Like what?"

"It's...hard to explain. I miss...the adrenaline rush you get. I don't miss living in fear, but I miss...that buzz I get when I'm running for my life or fighting off a few walkers."

Ron doesn't really understand. Its just as confusing to him as Carl's fascination with seeing over the wall, but he assumes that like the shorter boy's fascination, its something you have to experience to understand.

"A lot of people say that you feel most alive when you're an inch from death," Ron says.

Carl smiles to himself. "I guess that's sort of true." He's about to contemplate the statement deeper and get sucked into his head, when he hears Ron let out an ecstatic laugh.

"Alright! I found the chocolate! There's a shitload in here, like they've REALLY been saving up on the chocolate," Ron says, grabbing several bars and laying them out on the floor.

Carl smiles. "Holy shit, that's the most chocolate I've seen in...forever really."

"Ok, we can probably take about 20 bars without anyone noticing. They've got enough chocolate in here to put Willy Wonka out of business," Ron muses, stashing the chocolate bars inside his jacket pockets.

"I found the marshmallows," Carl says, taking a bag out. "There's only three bags though. Do you think they'll notice that its gone?"

Ron shakes his head. "Probably not, most recipes don't use marshmallows and there's not many reasons someone would need any, so the bags just sit in the cabinet for months. But if you really wanna play it safe, mark it off under Aaron's name."

"Its not really a robbery if we sign the food out under someone else's name. Its more like... Identity theft," Carl observes aloud.

Ron laughs at him and shakes his head. "Well, I guess so. It's not really much of a burglary to begin with though. I mean seriously, we walked in through the main entrance without any weapons or face masks, conversed with people, and someone else KNOWS that we're stealing."

"We're like, the best cat burglars ever, huh?"

"Yep."  
-

After a few more minutes of looking, Ron finds a box of graham crackers. (Which they sign off on Aaron's name because its the last box, so they're officially identity thieves now)

"We have this charred up old pit in our back yard. We can make a fire in there," Ron says as he and Carl walk to the Anderson household. "Did you guys have fires out on the road?"

"Yeah, but not for fun. They were for cooking our food and keeping warm at night," Carl explains as they walk into Ron's yard.

"So this is your first recreational fire then, huh?" He teases as he drags an old black fire pit out from underneath his porch. Its filthy, and leaves ash all over the taller boy's fingers.

"Do you have any sticks to roast the marshmallows on?"

"No. We can just get some from the yard and sharpen them with a pocket knife," Ron says, dusting his sooty hands off on his jeans.

"How about fire wood? Do you guys have any?"

"Uh, we have a few logs in the garage. It probably isn't enough though, so we can ask around for some more or just burn other stuff."

"What kind of other stuff?" Carl asks. "We used some really weird shit to build fires out there. One time, after a group of wild dogs attacked us, we had to use their meat for food and burn the carcuses to make a fire. It smelt really awful," He says with a look of disgust, flinching a little as he says it. 'Why the hell did I say that? That's not a normal thing to talk about. He probably thinks I'm even weirder now,' he thinks gloomily, tempted to kick himself.

Ron stares at him in shock for a minute before replying. "I was thinking old newspaper, sticks, and maybe some trash like empty milk cartons and cereal boxes. But you know...dead dog bodies work too. I don't think anyone's got a dog around here though," he says, playfully giving the other boy a push and trying to make him feel less awkward.

Carl smiles a little and shoves him back. "Alright then, I guess we'll go with your idea then. Just so you know and don't get all cocky, we're not going with you're idea because its better, we're going with it because there's a lack of dog bodies."

Ron smiles back at him and playfully rolls his eyes. "You're just jealous that I'm intellectually superior. Anyway, I know Spencer has some extra fire wood stored in his basement. We should go ask him," Ron says, emptying all of the chocolate from his pockets out onto the driveway. Carl takes the bag of marshmallows from out under his hat and sets it by the chocolate.

"And if he doesn't have any wood or won't give us any?"

"Don't worry, he has some and I know he'll share it. If he doesn't for some bizarre reason, Aaron and Eric probably have some."

Carl nods and follows Ron down the street.  
-

Spencer is in the middle of a huge fight with his mom and brother, Aiden, about how 'Rick's Group' should be allowed to help on night watch. Spencer claims that they're all great shooters and trustworthy people that have made night watch both easier and more fun. Aiden claims that 'Rick's Group' can't be trusted and that they'll probably murder Spencer one night while his back is turned. He also says that his older brother is a 'naive pussy that happily welcomes terrorists into Alexandria.' Spencer retaliates by calling his brother a 'suspicious asshole who can't trust his own family and gets a boner at the thought of getting to play bad cop.'

Deanna sighs and is about to tell her sons to stop it, that they've taken it too far, when there's a knock on the door.

"I'll get it," Spencer mutters, sighing deeply and trying to calm himself down as he walks to the front door. He swings it open to see Jessie's older kid, Ron, and that one teenage boy from 'Rick's Group', Carl. Aiden peers over his brother's shoulder and recognizes Carl. "Speak of the devil," he mutters dryly with a sneer. Spencer sharply elbows him in the ribs and smiles as his younger sibling walks away grumbling.

"Hey guys. What's up?"

"Do you have some wood that we could use to make a fire?" Ron asks.

"Sure, wait here, I'll go get it from under the porch," Spencer says before disappearing back inside the house.

Ron gives Carl a small kick and gives him a look that says, 'See? What did I tell you?'

"Ok guys, here's ten logs. This should be enough to keep a fire going for a few hours," Spencer says, distributing five logs to each of them to carry.

"Thanks, Spencer."

"Its no big deal. Hey, uh, why are you guys having a fire? Making s'mores or having a camp out in a backyard?"

"No, we're cooking dogs," Ron and Carl reply at the same time, causing both to start laughing uncontrollably. Spencer stares at them like they're insane before slowly closing the door.

"Who was it?" Deanna asks.

"Ron and Carl. They wanted to borrow some fire wood."

"That's nice, they're probably having a little cookout or something. Its good that Rick's family members are integrating themselves in with our people. If they do it, they eventually won't BE 'Rick's Group', and I think that's what's best."

Spencer smiles at his mom. "So you agree with me?"

Deanna sighs. "I've talked to all of them, and none of them have given me any reasons to distrust them."

Spencer smiles and nods. "Yeah, you're siding with me."

Deanna groans. "Im not siding with anyone, I see where both of you are coming from and you both have plausible reasoning behind your beliefs. But...I don't see any problem with Sasha, Rosita, Tara, Noah, Abraham, and Glenn doing night watch."

"Awesome!"

"How much firewood did you give them?"

"A few logs, we still have a ton. Why?"

"Well, this reminds me of having our own fires in our backyard, where we roast hot dogs and marshmallows. I miss it and I think we should have one sometime."

"Sure, its been forever since we've had a fire. Hey mom, me and Aiden used to have codes for things when we were kids, right?"

"Yes, and it was annoying as hell. You thought you were being subtle by calling a failed test 'The F Bomb' or by saying 'I F-bombed it' and you two both used to fill water guns with lemonade and squirt the girls on the block with it. You'd call that 'Lemon fresh airspraying'. You also would say 'Light sabers' and reference other people's 'Light sabers' and laugh hysterically. It wasn't hard to figure out that you were joking about male genitalia."

"So, you're good at decoding?"

"Children's so-called inside jokes and codes aren't hard to figure out."

"Ok, then what does it mean to 'cook dog'?"

Deanna stares at him like he's crazy. "What?"  
-

Ron and Carl pile the logs into the pit. Ron lights a match and starts the fire while Carl sharpens two sticks for them to roast marshmallows on with his pocket knife.

"You ever roasted marshmallows before?" Ron asks as he brings two folding chairs outside for them to sit on.

"No. I've helped bake fish at a campout once and I've heated up a can of baked beans over a fire if that counts."

Ron laughs and shakes his head. "Not exactly. Roasting marshmallows is like an art."

Carl snorts. "An art? How the hell is it an art? Don't you just stick it in the fire, blow out the flame, and eat it?"

"Ew, no, then its all burnt. My mom loves them like that, but I think she's just too lazy to roast them properly."

"And how does one roast them properly, sir?" Carl asks in an awful mock British accent.

Ron laughs again and throws a marshmallow at him. "Ok, ok! So maybe 'properly' was sort of an exaggeration. But there is a way to roast them so that they're golden and they taste best when they're like that, doofus."

Carl smiles at him. "Alright, I'll take your word for it."

"You won't have to, because you're gonna eat some in a few minutes," Ron says, tossing a second lit match into the flames.

"Ron?" Jessie calls from the garage as she runs outside. "I smell smoke, what the hell are you- oh hey Carl. You guys are having a fire? I thought you were going to be by the library," she says, sounding genuinely confused.

Ron knows that's what he told her last night, but he just said that on a whim to make her stop talking. "Yeah, the plans changed mom. Is this ok? If you don't want us having a fire, I can put it out," He says, looking at her with the saddest eyes he can make.

Jessie shrugs. "Yeah, its fine. Just put the pit back under the porch when you're done, ok?"

Ron gives her a thumbs up and she walks back inside.

"The library?" Carl asks.

"Its a really long story. To sum it up, dad was in a foul mood and got pissy that I had someone over. Sam asked why dad was mad and my mom said its because he's worried that I'm having the wrong kind of people over. I admit, that really ticked me off, so I told Sam that you weren't the wrong kind of person and that we were gonna hang out again by the library. It was the first place that popped into my head, and I was just feeling...defiant I guess."

Carl nods in understanding. "I get it. Sometimes I just do stuff to piss my dad off because I'm mad at him."

Ron grins. "Me too. I purposefully blast my music sometimes while he's hung over and I leave my shoes in the doorway for him to trip over."

Carl chuckles. "Yeah, I do the opposite of what he tells me to do, even when I know he's right."

"Ugh, I hate when my dad's right!" He groans, running a hand over his face. "Seriously, I'd rather eat dog shit than tell him that he's right."

Carl nods his head exuberantly. "I know, and my dad never admits when he's wrong, and it pisses me off!"

"Same! Even when he's wrong, he's right."

"Exactly! No matter how many times I try to get my point across, its just like it doesn't matter because he shuts me out."

"I hate that! I hate when I'm trying my best to stay calm and civilized, and he's already done with the conversation."

They both sit in silence for a moment, Carl hands Ron one of the sharpened sticks.

"But I love my dad."

"Me too, even if he's a douche," Ron says sullenly.

"Does your dad just hit your mom or does he hit you too?" Carl asks quietly, knowing that its a very personable question and a lot heavier of a topic than the joking banter they just initiated in.

"My mom gets the worst of it, because even if he's going after me, she jumps in and becomes a fucking martyr. It makes me feel like shit. But yeah, he roughs me up sometimes. He doesn't really touch Sam. Like, he'll yell at him and he's smacked him a few times, but he never really hurts him. But...sometimes he's a great dad, you know? Like, when he's sober he's funny and understanding. I just wish...we ran out of alcohol around here so he couldn't drink," Ron admits, looking down at his converse and biting his lip.

Carl looks at him sadly. He gets what he's saying, but he doesn't truly understand. His dad never hit his mom or him for that matter. Once in awhile, he gets so mad at Carl that he refuses to speak to him, but he never gets psychical. He knows his dad is really a good guy.

"Does anybody know?"

"I'm sure everyone has a clue. I mean, I never formally told you about it, and you figured it out. I'm sure everyone sees my mom's bruises and sees my dad staggering around, but... No ones ever really done anything."

"What would you want them to do?" Carl asks.

Ron laughs bitterly. "See, that's the thing. I don't know. I don't want them to take my dad away, but...I want them to fix him. The ideal situation would be if we ran out of alcohol and then Deanna set up a detox center for him to stay at for a few weeks."

Carl feels pangs in his chest as he hears a few sniffling noises coming from the boy beside him. He's not sure if they're close enough for him to initiate physical contact without it being weird, but he feels bad for how vulnerable Ron just made himself, so Carl rather awkwardly leans over and wraps his arms around the his shoulders, pulling him into an even more awkward hug. He feels Ron's back go stiff, like he wasn't expecting a hug, so Carl is about to pull away and apologize when Ron wraps his arms back around the shorter boy and pulls him in closer, resting his chin on Carl's shoulder.

"Thanks," he mutters with a heavy sigh, patting Carl on the back. "Its kinda nice to talk about it...my mom doesn't like to and Sam isn't fully aware of how bad things are."

Carl nods as he pulls away. "Like I said yesterday, you can talk to me."

Ron smiles and scratches the back of his head. "I'll remember that." He reaches down and fishes some marshmallows out of the bag. "So...are you ready to learn how to roast a marshmallow the proper way?" He asks, drawing out 'o' in proper in the snootiest way possible.

Carl laughs and nods. "Why, that sounds absolutely wonderful." He coughs sheepishly. "Damn, my British accent needs work."  
-

Like the previous day, Carl has a blast. Sure, he burns the first three marshmallows on accident, and his fourth one catches on fire, but its still really fun to just sit there and attempt to 'properly' roast marshmallows while talking with Ron (who spends 15 minutes on one marshmallow so that it's golden. Carl humbly grants him bragging rights for that). They finally end up with enough good marshmallows (mostly roasted by Ron) to make some s'mores.

"Ok, well, I assume you've never had a s'more since you've never roasted marshmallows before," Ron says, slapping two marshmallows between a piece of chocolate and two graham crackers.

Carl shakes his head. "No, I'm a true camp out virgin."

It takes Ron a few seconds to get the joke before he laughs. "Well then, here's your first s'more ever," Ron says, handing the sticky mess between to graham crackers over to his friend.

He laughs as he watches Carl attempt to eat the goey mess, and end up with several strings of sticky marshmallow on his face.

"Do you like it?" Ron asks as he makes himself a s'more.

Carl nods, taking another bite and getting even more marshmallow on his face. Ron smiles fondly at him as he starts eating, his face becoming just as sticky and messy.  
-

"So...this is what you stole? Chocolate, graham crackers, and marshmallows?" Aaron muses.

"We signed the graham crackers off on your name, so we didn't steal the food, just your identity," Carl replies as Aaron sits with them.

Aaron chuckles as he motions for Carl to let him borrow his stick to roast marshmallows. Carl gladly complies, handing the man a marshmallow and his stick.

"So...s'mores, huh?" Aaron says with a content smile. "It's been ages since I've sat down at a camp fire."

"Me too," Ron says, slowly turning his stick as yet another perfect marshmallow finished roasting. He shoots Carl a teasing smile, waving the golden marshmallow in the air like an Olympic medal.

Carl gives him a joking stink eye and blows him a raspberry.

"Damn it!" Aaron cusses as his marshmallow catches on fire. He quickly blows out the flame and frowns at how burnt it is. He looks at Ron in amazement. "How the hell are you so good at this?"

"My dad and I used to camp in the back yard a lot when I was little. He showed me how to make a prooooooper s'more," he says, grinning at Carl, who simply flips him the bird.

"Give me another marshmallow, I'm gonna do this right," Aaron says with determination. Carl laughs and hands him a second marshmallow, which promptly catches on fire a few seconds later. "Fuck!" Aaron gives up, makes himself a s'more and starts walking away.

Ron and Carl laugh at him as he storms off. "It still tastes just fine with my burnt-ass marshmallows!" Aaron yells back at them, causing them to laugh harder.  
-

After an hour, Sam comes out to join them and roasts a few marshmallows and eats a few s'mores. After Sam runs off to play with another boy, Ron puts the fire out. True to his offer yesterday, the two of them head up to his room, find a Nirvana CD, and pop it in the radio. They lay on the floor, singing along and licking the marshmallow off the corners of their lips. Ron shows Carl the sketch of Kurt Cobain that she drew for him a few months ago.

"That's amazing! Your mom's got some amazing skills when it comes to art. If you hadn't told me this was a drawing I would think it was a black and white photo."

Ron smiles. "Yeah, she's an amazing artist. She drew this for me a few months ago. I thought it was a picture at first too."

Carl grins at him. "I guess the artsy thing is genetic."

Ron looks at him like he's insane. "I can't draw or paint worth shit and I'm not creative enough to make sculptures like my mom does."

"You can roast golden marshmallows proooooperly and you referred to that as an art yourself earlier," Carl teases, giving him a playful push. Ron smiles back and retaliates, grabbing the smaller boy under the armpits, flipping him onto his back on the floor, and pining his wrists above his head. Both teens laugh, and wrestle around on the floor for a minute. Ron manages to pin Carl down a second time, hovering above him. Carl squirms around in his grasp and laughs. Ron smiles down at him, keeping his hold on the other boy's wrists. He holds the position for a little too long for it to seem normal, blushes , and rolls off of Carl to lie beside him. He lets out a wheezy laugh and closes his eyes, feeling his cheeks burn. Carl smiles over at him and gives him a friendly kick. Ron grins back at him and keeps his one hand on the brim of Carl's hat, closing his eyes again and humming along to 'Scentless Apprentice'.


	4. The Deal of Dinners and Staying Inside

DISCLAIMER: I don't own The Walking Dead or any of the bands, brands, or titles used in this chapter.

The next two weeks are kind of a blur for Carl. He's pretty much relieved of baby duty, as Glenn and Maggie typically watch Judith and if they're busy Tara or Carol usually steps up to the plate and watches her.

Carl spends all of his newly acquired free time with Ron: Sitting in Ron's bedroom playing unnecessarily violent and gory videogames, listening to music loud enough for the whole town to hear, occasionally pulling a mean-spirited yet hilarious prank on Eugene, and participating in a variety of other indiscriminate and stupid activities. Carl can honestly say he's never been happier and that he's most at ease when he's laying in the grass with Ron beside him, debating if its possible to read minds or not and if there's a difference between porcupines and hedgehogs.

The whole thing is a wonderfully new concept to Carl, and he's actually a little bit scared that he's going to fuck it up somehow. He's never had someone like this in his life. He's never had someone to lay down with on the floor and listen to Led Zepplin and Metallica with, to make inside jokes with, to leave fake vomit all over Eugene's bed with, or to really just plain out TALK to. (the closest he's had to this is Michonne) Its amazing to Carl, and he gets this bizarre warm feeling in his stomach that spreads up to his throat and blooms in his chest when he and Ron spend time together. The best part, in Carl's opinion, is that the two of them can be doing absolutely NOTHING and still have a blast. They can just be sitting at the kitchen table and they'll find something dumb yet intriguing to talk about or come up with some zany and idiotic thing to do.

Ron feels similarly if not almost exactly the same. He feels free to open up to Carl, discussing things that he'd never talk about with any one else: like his dad and some of his dumb insecurities. A feeling of total secrecy and closeness sets in when they're together. (Although Ron knows that Carl still keeps a lot of stuff to himself, because he assumes that he's been through a lot out there and Carl seldom talks about anything bad that happened to him before arriving in Alexandria.) Ron has found that he lives for that feeling that kicks in when he's with Carl. It starts out as a bubbling sensation in his face and it floods out and spreads around his body, like pleasantly warm water filling an empty bath tub. He assumes this is what being on drugs is like: a feeling of security, comfort, and contentment, and if so, he now understands how and why people get hooked. He loves that he doesn't feel pressured at all with Carl or like he's being judged or analyzed. It is honestly a totally 'safe zone' to be himself and relax.

Mikey eventually gets over his virus and Ron occasionally invites him to tag along. Carl gets to know Mikey better and learns to like him. Its really not hard to like Mik, he's nice, laid back, and DEFINITELY a people person (something Carl has never been able to be and he respects people like Mikey that can actually tolerate other human beings without wanting to kill them.) But even after Mikey starts to grow on him, he prefers to have Ron to himself. He knows that sounds awful, so he never says anything but has internally accepted that its true. Ron ironically feels the same. He likes Mik, he really does, but he likes it better when its just Carl and him and he'd be lying if he said that he was disappointed when Mikey suddenly was busy all of the time and couldn't hang out. He's pretty sure that that sounds weird, so he keeps quiet about it.

To keep his dad from freaking the fuck out because he's hanging out with 'Rick's kid', Ron lies to his dad about where he's going when he leaves in the morning to go meet up with Carl. When Pete asks, he says that he's going to the library or that he promised to help one of their neighbors out. His mom covers his back for him sometimes when he gets tongue tied and can't come up with an excuse for his departure. Besides the small lying complication Ron is having with his dad, life is good.

-  
"What do you think would happen if human beings were to sweat gasoline?"

"You mean... when we'd sweat, gasoline would come out of our pores?" Carl asks.

"Yeah."

"It'd feel sorta gross, wouldn't it?"

"Not really because we'd be used to it. What I'm wondering is if you were sweating and went outside under the sun, would your body catch on fire since it'd be drenched in gasoline?" Ron asks as he and Carl walk down the empty streets of Alexandria. Its evening and Ron is walking Carl home for the night after a full day of bizarre conversations (much like this one) and attempting to throw rocks and empty soda cans over the wall. They also made a pathetic soda-volcano with some Mentos and a liter of soda. (neither is exactly sure what gave them the impulse to make a soda-volcano, but they did. Sam was extremely impressed by it.)

"I don't know, that's a good question. I guess you would since gasoline is so fucking flammable," Carl says.

"That's what I think too. But would your body burn?"

"What do you mean? Of course it would, you'd be on fire!"

"Not exactly. My dad told me that the vapors coming off of gasoline is what catches on fire, not the gasoline itself. But...you'd probably still get burned since you'd be so close to the vapor," Ron says, answering his own question as he thinks aloud.

"Yeah, and you wouldn't have any hair either, it'd probably all burn off. And your eyebrows would get singed off," Carl adds as they approach his house.

"Yeah probably," Ron agrees. "Well uh, I'll see you tomorrow?" He hates how eager and pathetic his voice sounds as he asks.

Carl smiles. "Yeah." He starts to walk up the steps that lead to the porch when Ron grabs him by the arm. Carl turns around to ask what's wrong when he's pulled into a hug. 'This is new,' he thinks idly as Ron wraps his arms around his shoulders. Usually, Ron and he just say their goodbyes after making plans for the next day. Maybe they'd have a quick one-armed hug. But this is the first time that Ron's clung onto him like this while saying goodbye. Carl hugs him back, briefly resting his head on Ron's chest.

"See you tomorrow," Ron mutters in his ear, nudging his nose into Carl's hair and awkwardly bumping his forehead against his hat.

"Yeah, see you then," Carl replies as Ron lets him go. Ron's face is the same color as blood as pulls away. He shoots Carl a twitchy smile before running off. Carl feels his heart pound almost painfully against his ribcage and his lips pull into an impossibly huge smile as he watches Ron go.  
-

"What'd you do today?" Michonne asks Carl as he walks in the front door.

"Not much," he replies, taking his hat off and running a hand through his hair. He's still smiling like a maniac.

"You were gone all day again today, you must've done something," she replies pointedly.

"You're right, I did. I murdered twelve people and stashed the bodies inside the walls. If you smell something funny, its just the corpses rotting. I killed all of my victims through the head, so don't worry," he replies sarcastically with a smirk, thinking he's the funniest and cleverest person to ever grace the planet.

Michonne smiles and rolls her eyes. She grabs him by the wrist as he tries to walk by. "You only took out twelve? I took out twenty and I used the skin off the bodies to make leather jackets, the bones to make bowls, the flesh and muscle tissue were used in Carol's chili tonight, and I made the eyeballs into a rather stunning ring."

"My my, aren't you resourceful."

"I know I am. And you go and waste all of those corpses by stuffing them in the walls. I'm ashamed of you."

"Don't think you're original with your eyeball ring. Daryl has made body part jewelry too."

"He has?"

"Yep, he made a necklace out of ears once," Carl says with a triumphant smile. "So he beat you to it. You're just following his fad."

"Well, shit. I guess I'll just have to use their teeth to make a hairbrush then."

Carl gags and laughs. "Oh my god, that's gross! Holy crap, Michonne! I can't even jokingly talk about that without getting grossed out!"

"What? The thought of running stranger's teeth through your hair disturbs you?" She asks. Right after she says it, she makes a face and sticks her tongue out. "No, you're right. That's really gross. Ew!"

"See?!" Carl shrieks with a laugh as Michonne continues making disgusted faces and shaking her head.

"Whatever, I'm still going to come up with something to make out of teeth. I will not just be following a trend set by Daryl, because I AM original."

"Original isn't always synonymous with good."

"No, but I am."

Carl laughs until his stomach hurts. Michonne just gives him a sassy smile with a raised eyebrow. Carl loves when he overhears people that don't really know Michonne talking about how 'reserved' and 'quiet' she is, because Carl is close with her and he sure as hell knows that she isn't 'quiet' or 'reserved'. Once you get to know her, she's a witty, spontaneous, wild, and creative woman with a personality that Carl would compare to fireworks. 'Reserved and quiet my ass...'

"You aren't synonymous with good either."

"You're right, I'm not synonymous with good, I'm synonymous with flawless."

Carl lets out a breathless laugh and flops down next to her on the couch. "Shut up."

"Not until you tell me what you did today."

"I won't tell you until you can think of a good product to make out of your victim's teeth," Carl replies. He doesn't really care if Michonne knows what he did or not, he usually excitedly tells her about his day in detail every evening after he gets home. This situation just gives him the chance to string her along and make snarky comments, which are two things that he loves to do. Typical teenage behavior.

"Ugh, fine! Don't tell me what you did, I'll figure it out on my own easily enough."

Carl yawns and watches as Michonne stares him down as if trying to see through his skull and read his thoughts like an Agatha Christie novel. It's actually a little unnerving to have Michonne's eyes staring holes through him and he starts to squirm involuntarily.

"Well, its not hard to guess that you were with Ron. He's all you ever talk about," she teases.

"Ron isn't all I ever talk about!" Carl exclaims.

"You're right, you talk about Batman a lot too."

Carl laughs and gives her a joking punch. "Ok, so all I ever talk about is Batman and Ron? All you ever talk about is Wonder Woman and you bitch about the lack Kit Kat bars around here."

"Hey, Kit Kat bars are the shit, alright? Seriously, if I can only eat one more thing before I die, its gonna be a Kit Kat bar," Michonne says, snatching Carl's hat out of his hands and placing it atop her head. "And Wonder Woman is great. I build shrines to the badass heroine Diana Prince."

"You build shrines? Damn, that's dedication for you," Carl says with a whistle and a teasing smile.

"No, you've spent every day hanging out with the same person for almost three weeks, and you aren't doing it to survive, you're doing it by choice. THAT'S dedication."

Carl laughs and shakes his head, but Michonne sees a pink tint color his face. "Whatever. You know, Batman is better than Wonder Woman and Twix bars are tastier than Kit Kats."

Michonne gasps dramatically and stares at him in mock horror. "What the hell is wrong with you?! How can you possibly think that Twix are better than Kit Kats?! And Batman isn't even CLOSE to being as awesome as Wonder Woman!"

"Nu-uh! Twix bars are so good, that they have to package them in twos to keep the crazed fans satisfied!"

"That's wrong, they come in twos because they're so awful that no one would buy them otherwise," Michonne replies coolly.

"Not true!"

"Is soooo true! And Wonder Woman is better than Batman! C'mon, you can't even compete with the Lasso of Truth or her invisible jet"

"Can too! The Batmobile is better than an invisible jet. Why the hell would you even want an invisible jet!? Wouldn't you just lose it!? And Batman has a utility belt with a bunch of kick-ass weapons on it!"

"Kick-ass weapons!? My friend, the batarang is NOT a kick-ass weapon."

"Maybe not the batarang, but-"

"What the hell are you two screaming about?" Rick asks, poking his head into the living room. He just got Judith to go to sleep and he'll be dammed if the two of them wake her up with their yelling.

"Your son fails to see the amazingness of Wonder Woman and all of her feminist glory. He also has this insane idea that Twix bars are better than Kit Kats. I think you raised him wrong, Rick."

"Well, she thinks Twix bars suck! She also makes creepy shrines to Wonder Woman and is trying to make a hairbrush out of human teeth!"

"Hey, at least I'm resourceful! You just shove your victims in the walls and let their bodies go to waste!"

"You're just sad that Daryl made body part jewelry before you!"

The two of them start to crack up and Rick watches them in confusion. "I'm definitely missing something here..." He mutters. "This is all part of some weird running gag between you two, right?"

"It is and its too hard to explain," Michonne replies, wiping tears of laughter from her eyes. "Honestly Rick, who's better? Batman or Wonder Woman?"

"Yeah dad, who's better?"

Rick shrugs. "I don't really care for either of them."

"What?! Alright, fine, Twix or Kit Kat?"

An evil smile spreads across Rick's face. "100 Grand Bars," he replies.

Carl and Michonne both start crying out in joking outrage. Michonne takes off one of her shoes and tosses it at Rick. He easily ducks out of the way, chuckling to himself.

"Those are gross! No one likes them!"

"I do, so that's one person," Rick replies, still smiling.

Michonne sighs and rolls her eyes. "You're disappointing. Anyway, your son also denies that all he ever talks about is Batman and Ron Anderson. C'mon you have to agree with me on this, Rick."

"It's not true, I talk about a ton of other stuff!"

"Like what?" Michonne challenges with a smile, repositioning herself on the couch with Carl's hat still on her head.

"Like...Halo! Yeah, I talk about Halo and other videogames," Carl says, giving Michonne a smirk.

"Ah, yes. But who do you play Halo with?" Michonne asks casually, resting her chin on the arm of the couch.

The smirk falls off of Carl's lips. "Ron..." He admits.

Michonne smiles, but before she can talk, Carl hurriedly says, "But I talk about music too! Yeah, Pink Floyd and Nirvana and Green Day... I talk about the music I like."

Michonne clucks her tongue. "Ok, and who do you listen to music with?"

Carl feels his face flush. "Ron," he admits again, curling into himself under Michonne's gaze. "But...I talk about books I'm reading too. Like 'Misery' and 'Bridge to Terabithia'."

"Ok, but you didn't have any access to books until we arrived in Alexandria. So... Who suggested those books to you? Who provides you with books?"

"Well I get the books from the library...-

"Ok, but who suggested you read 'Misery'?"

Carl mutters something inaudibly.

"What was that?" Michonne asks teasingly.

"Ron..."

"Ok, see? You-"

"I talk about Frisball!" Carl shouts.

"Frisball?" Michonne asks questioningly, hints of skepticism in her voice.

"Its this game I made one day at the prison with some other kids, and it in no way has anything to do with Ron," Carl says, smiling triumphantly. "Or Batman for that matter."

Michonne slowly nods and is about to admit her defeat when Rick looks at his son in confusion and says: "Frisball? Is that the game you told me about the other day? The one you taught Ron to play and the two of you were playing it in the yard and accidentally ran into Glenn and knocked him over?"

Carl flushes as Michonne starts howling with laughter. He grits his teeth in annoyance, glaring at his dad. Rick simply shrugs.

"Hahaha! See? You do talk about Ron all the time, whether it be intentional or not," Michonne says with a chuckle.

Carl rolls his eyes, wishing he had an awesome comeback, but he doesn't. Instead he just mutters a flippant, "Whatever."

"Its funny, you do talk about him a lot and I've never really met him," Rick says.

"You met him at that house party the night we got here," Carl points out.

"I know, but I've never really talked to him and you'd think I would've by now since you two are practically attached at the hip."

"I've never really talked to him either," Michonne says. "I don't think anyone in our family has."

"Eugene has," Carl says with a tiny devilish smile, memories of an outraged Eugene chasing him and Ron out of his house with a broom after seeing the fake vomit all over his bed flashing in his mind. "But you're right, no one else has."

"You should have him over for dinner some time, let everyone get to meet him. I mean, you spend most of your time with him and talk about him all the time and we barely know the kid," Rick suggests.

Carl's about to roll his eyes and tell his dad what a stupid idea that is, when he stops to think about it. He realizes that its actually a pretty good idea. He does talk about Ron a hell of a lot (not that he'll ever admit this to Michonne) and he is with Ron 90% of the time. Besides, the Andersons have had him over for dinner four times now, so its really only courteous of him to host Ron.

"Sure. I'll ask him tomorrow. Is it ok if I have him over for dinner tomorrow night?"

"I don't see why not." Rick replies

"This is so exciting! I'm finally going to get to meet the enigma Carl so feverously rambles on about," Michonne teases.

Carl groans, snatching his hat back from her. "Go shove a Kit Kat up your ass."

Michonne just laughs. "Aw, don't be so sour. Are you worried that we're going to embarrass you? Because let me just be clear, you shouldn't be worried about me embarrassing you, you should be scared shitless about it."

"Aw no, are you gonna whip out the baby pictures?" Carl jokes as he starts to walk upstairs.

"Oh of course I am. And I'm going to tell him all about everything dumb that you've ever done ever," Michonne says with an affectionate smile.

Carl just laughs and starts headed up the stairs.

"Where are you going?"

"To bed."

"What, no hug?" Michonne asks, hopping to her feet and outstretching her arms to receive a hug.

"I don't hug people who make hairbrushes out of human teeth," Carl replies.

"I don't make hairbrushes out of teeth," Rick says, also outstretching his arms indicating that he wants a hug.

"Yeah, but you like 100 Grand Bars, and that's reason enough not to hug you," Carl says with a smile as he ascends the stairs.

Rick sighs as his son leaves. He turns to Michonne. "Can I have a hug?" He asks with a goofy smile, holding his arms out.

Michonne jokingly makes a face of disgust. "You heard what Carl said,why would I hug a 100 Grand Bar lover?"

"Because I think that Wonder Lady is better than Birdman," Rick suggests with a smile.

Michonne dramatically sighs and gives him a tight hug. She rests her head on his shoulder.

"Rick, it's Wonder Woman, not Wonder Lady. And its Batman, not Birdman."

"Shoot, really?"

"Yeah," Michonne mutters into his shoulder.

Carl is sound asleep around six AM, curled up in his warm covers. THUD! He groggily opens his eyes, still half asleep, and quietly calls out for everyone to 'shut the fuck up' before rolling over. A second THUD on his window causes him to groan, but remain in his bed. The third THUD is what prompts him to cuss under his breath and stumble out of bed. He rubs at his tired eyes as he rolls out of bed, slowly walking over to his bedroom door. He's about to open the door and look out into the hall to see who the hell dare make such dreadful noises while he tries to sleep, when he hears a fourth THUD, and realizes that the noises are coming from outside his window. Cautiously, Carl pads back across his bedroom floor and stands in front of his window. As he draws his curtains back, a stick hits against his window, making another THUD. He jumps in surprise. "What the hell?" He mutters as he opens the window and pokes his head out.

The sun just rose over Alexandria, the early morning rays of warmth making the dew on the green grass shine like tiny diamonds. Besides a few birds chirping, its silent. Carl looks around in confusion, trying to figure out why there were sticks being launched at his window, when a whisper from below him catches his attention.

"Hey! Hey! Carl! Look down here!"

Carl looks down to see Ron standing in his yard, holding an armful of sticks. "Hey! Carl!" He whisper-yells at him, waving up at him with his free hand.

Carl can't help but smile and laugh under his breath. "What are you doing here?" He whisper-yells down to him.

"What?"

"I asked what you're doing here!"

Ron's smile widens. "There's something I need to show you!"

"What is it?"

"Come down and I'll show you!"

Without thinking, Carl nods. He quickly closes his window, throws on a clean pair of jeans, a hoodie, and some sneakers, grabs his hat, and runs down the stairs and out into his yard to join his friend. Ron beams at him and grabs Carl by the wrist and they tread across several yards in silence.

"Where are we going?" Carl asks quietly after a few minutes of walking. His sneakers are damp from the dew on the grass and the chilly morning breeze is making him shiver. Part of him wishes he were still laying in his warm dry covers, but the majority of him is happy to be out here with Ron. The pleasant pressure of Ron's hand encircled around his wrist makes his heart flutter around his chest like a caged bird.

"You know how Mikey has been 'busy' all week?" Ron asks.

Its been eight days since Mikey last hung out with them. Ron asked Mik if he could chill with them three times and Mikey politely declined each time and said that he was too busy. He never said what he was actually doing and never even dropped any hints as to what he was up to.

"Yeah?"

"I know what he's been doing," Ron says with an immature giggle. "And it's friggin hilarious."

Carl knows its pointless to ask the obvious question: What is he doing? He knows Ron won't answer him, so he just smiles and goes over each scenario that he can think of in his head, trying his best to guess what the hell Mikey's been doing for the last eight days that's kept him so preoccupied.

As they near the park, Ron starts to walk on his tiptoes to make less noise and Carl does the same out of instinct once he sees Ron doing it. They creep around behind several trees and shrubs throughout the park. Both boys watch where they're walking to avoid stepping on a twig or branch that could snap and alert anyone nearby of their presence. Carl isn't sure WHY they're sneaking around, but he doesn't dare step on anything or make too much noise because he has a feeling that they're spying on Mikey. When Ron ducks behind a thick oak tree a few feet away from the gazebo and motions for him to come crouch beside him, his theory is proven correct. Carl carefully kneels beside him and peers around the tree. He easily spots Mikey sitting in the gazebo. The boy has a notebook in his lap and is furiously writing in it, pencil flying across the page.

"I don't get what's so funny. So, he's taken to writing?" Carl asks in confusion, not sure why Ron dragged him out of bed for this.

Ron giggles and shakes his head. "Just wait for him to read a passage aloud," he whispers.

The two of them wait in silence for about four minutes (all the while Carl thinking about his comfy bed) before Mikey clears his throat and begins to read his writing aloud: "I've never been able to fully express how good I think your hair smells. Honestly, it smells like a coconut had a baby with a mango, and then this baby put on a bunch of sweet smelling perfume. Not only does your hair smell good, it looks good. Your hair is pretty and so is the rest of your face. My favorite part of your face is your nose because its adorable and reminds me of a kitten's nose. But just because your nose reminds me of a kitten's doesn't mean that you remind me of a kitten. Actually, far from it. You're a total bad ass. I respect that you're not afraid to leave Alexandria and that you have a yearning for freedom. Its really cool and makes me think of a ninja. You're a pretty ninja that smells good. And Im afraid that you're going to hurt me, both emotionally and physically when I tell you this, but I love you. You're the most perfect human being I've ever met."

Carl has to bite down on the sleeve of his hoodie to keep from bursting out laughing. Ron is shaking with silent laughter, his hand over his mouth to keep from making any noise. Mikey continues to read his writing aloud with a flamboyant smile on his face. Halfway through his 'pretty ninja' paragraph he stops and shakes his head. "This part sounds choppy," he mutters, erasing a few of his sentences. A quizzical look flashes over his face as he ponders what to write. "You're the light at the end of my tunnel...no that sounds suicidal. You inspire me to be a better person...cliche. Uh...I admire you're bravery and individuality. Yeah, that's it!" He mutters happily, continuing to write.

At this point, Carl's biting down on both of his wrists to keep from laughing and both he and Ron are red in the face with unshed tears of laughter building up in their eyes. Ron grabs Carl by the wrist again and they quickly yet quietly jog away. Once they're out of the park and on the streets again, they hunch over and start choking on their laughter.

"Wh-what the h-hell did I just l-listen to?" Carl asks as he laughs hysterically.

"Sounds like a pathetic attempt at a love letter to me! I caught him reading aloud his writing last night as I was coming home and I briefly listened to his weird infatuated rantings a few nights ago while taking the trash out, but I wasn't sure what exactly he was doing. When I overheard him this morning and eavesdropped for a few minutes, I finally figured out that he was reading aloud his OWN mushy writing instead of some chick-flick novelist's writing!" Ron says with a smile, a few chuckles vibrating in his throat. "Still not sure WHY he's writing awful love letters and poetry, but he is."

"Because he's in love," Carl replies simply with a smile. "And he's so helplessly in love that he feels the need to extravagantly express this love of his to the one he's tripping over himself for."

Ron nods. "Yeah, probably. I get it but I still don't understand why he hasn't found a less...painful way to do it. I mean, no offense to Mik, but he's no wordsmith and his words don't tug on my heartstrings by any means. The closest thing to a physical reaction that I have to his poetry is my eardrums bleeding."

Carl laughs in agreement. "Yeah, he's not a poet ...but maybe the person he's trying to show his love for will appreciate how...'Mikey' it is, you know? His writing style obviously isn't similar to Shakespeare's, but its definitely uniquely his. So...maybe they'll smile at his love letters and think of how original they are and how sweet Mikey is to have written them," Carl suggests.

Ron hums a laugh. "Yeah, maybe. I just don't think who he's after is going to appreciate his gooey, sappy writing."

Carl looks at his friend questioningly. "Who's he in love with?"

"Aw, c'mon Carl! He mentioned in the litany that we listened to that he admires their bravery and how they're unafraid to go over the walls and that he thinks that their 'yearning for freedom' is awesome. Who do we know does that sound like?"

"Enid."

"Yeah. Do you really think that Enid is gonna appreciate his sappy letters?"

Carl shrugs. "Maybe. I know that she comes off as an independent and withdrawn loner, but she could be secretly wishing that someone loved and admired her. And Mikey REALLY does love and admire her, so...maybe she'll read those letters and poems and get all emotional and shit and think 'Wow, I never thought that I could be so deeply admired, accepted, and loved by someone. I really never even imagined that I'd meet someone who loved me despite my flaws and accepted my broken parts.'"

Ron smiles at him faintly. "You could be right, a lot of damaged people hide stuff. She could secretly want someone or maybe even like Mikey. But I don't think E is a romantic, but you certainly are with that mindset."

Carl smiles. "I guess I am. Let me know if my sappy shit annoys you."

"It doesn't, its actually kinda nice and refreshing," Ron replies with a smile. His heartbeat picks up as he watches Carl's lips curve into a sincere grin.

"So...looks like we've got an early start to the day today since its only six thirty and we're awake. What do you wanna do?"  
-

They end up sneaking into the supply house to hang out and chat while playing card games. They talk about books that they've both read and movies they've watched but they mostly talk about Mikey and his sonnets to Enid. They also talk about Enid a lot.

"She's been gone for 23 days now," Carl says, hints of worry in his voice.

Ron sighs as he deals the cards. "Yeah, its been awhile. I'm always nervous while she's away. I mean, I know she can take care of herself but it's still nerve-wracking not knowing where she is and if she's ok or even alive. Don't get too worked up though, 23 days seems like a lot but its not the longest that she's been gone. She was gone for three months once. I had been pretty fucking sure that she had gotten herself killed, but she eventually came back. The point is that sometimes she's gone for days, other times weeks, and occasionally even months."

Carl nods. "Ok, so being gone this long isn't totally abnormal for her. I'd go looking for her, but I don't even know where to start. She could be anywhere and its hard to even begin searching for someone when you don't have any fresh tracks to trace or any ideas as to where to look."

Ron suddenly looks at him with worry. "Yeah, looking for her is a bad idea. Promise me that you'll stay inside the walls."

Carl gives him a funny look. "I can promise that I won't look for Enid but I can't promise not to go over the wall."

"Why not?" Ron asks, anxiety seeping into his tone.

Carl picks up on the distress in his voice and scoots closer to him. "Because sometimes I just go over the walls to relax and unwind or to practice my aim and to keep myself from getting rusty."

"You can practice your aim inside the walls. Spencer and Aiden have targets in their yard. And...I don't know how to help you unwind and clear your head. Just...drink some herbal tea and listen to The Grateful Dead or something!" Ron says exasperatedly, the anxiety becoming even more evident.

"I was never much of a tea drinker," Carl replies with a smirk, despite the severity of the conversation.

Ron groans and gives him a look. "Please just stay in Alexandria, ok?"

"Why? I can take care of myself, I know how to keep myself safe and I'm in control out there-"

Ron laughs bitterly and shakes his head. "Everyone can take care of themselves...until they can't. And everyone is in control...until they aren't. Trust me. My dad was in control. He said that he could put down the scotch whenever he wanted to and that he was in control of himself and not the alcohol. He was all about the fact that he could take care of himself. He didn't need anyone else to lock up the liquor cabinet or make sure he didn't stagger and fall down the stairs because he's was so shit-faced. He was in control and able to take care if himself until he couldn't. And it didn't matter how long he COULD be in control and take care of himself, what mattered was when he couldn't... I don't doubt that you're a great survivor, but I'd feel better with you inside the walls, ok? Just...please stay put?"

Carl stares at him in silence, feeling his heart twist into knots. Ron looks at the floor in shame and pulls his knees up to his chest. Ron hates how stupid, desperate, and broken he sounds so he just keeps his mouth shut and hopes that he didn't piss Carl off. He's about to apologize when he feels Carl's arms wrap around his shoulders and pull him closer. He sighs out in relief and hugs back. Carl props his chin up on Ron's shoulder and soothingly rubs his back.

"I'll stay here, but on one condition," Carl mutters.

"What?" Ron asks.

"You come to my house for dinner tonight and meet my family. They're all teasing the shit outta me because I talk about you and they've never met you. I think some of them think that I made you up and that you're my imaginary friend," Carl jokes.

Ron quietly laughs. "Sure."  
-

They spend most of the afternoon talking. Carl warns Ron about how obnoxious, loud, aloof, and uncivilized some of his family members can be. Ron laughs it off, saying his family is probably ten times worse. Carl just shakes his, hoping that his dad doesn't interrogate him, Eugene doesn't go off on some science spiel, Tara contains her excitement, and that Abraham can keep the TMI Conversations and crude jokes minimal. It'd also be really cool if Daryl could use his spoon and fork to eat with for once, but Carl knows that that's REALLY pushing his luck.

Ron tells his mom that he's going to eat dinner with Carl and both of them agree to lie and tell his dad that he's eating dinner with Mikey.

Around six, Carl and Ron walk over to Carl's house. The second the two of them step in the front door, Michonne and Tara practically pounce on them.

"You must be Ron! Hi! Im Tara! Carl's told us all about you," Tara exclaims, shaking Ron's hand.

"Nice to meet you," Ron replies with a smile.

"Im Michonne. You probably know all about me, I bet Carl bitches about me all the time," Michonne says with a teasing grin. Carl rolls his eyes but Ron laughs and shakes her hand.

They manage to walk another three feet before Maggie and Glenn run up to them.

"You must be Ron Anderson! Carl's told us about you plenty of times and I've been waiting to finally meet you!" Maggie beams.

"Ron, this is Maggie and this is Glenn. Glenn and Maggie, this is Ron," Carl introduces as the Korean shakes his friend's hand.

"Hey Carl! Who's the compadre?" Abraham asks as he strolls over.

"Uh, Abraham this is Ron. Ron, this is Abraham."

"Nice to meet you son," Abraham grunts.

"Nice to meet you too."

"Carl! Is this the kid you're always talking about?" Rosita asks. Carl groans and runs a hand over his face and Ron just smiles and shakes Rosita's hand.

"It's nice to meet you, Ron. Carl talks about you so much, I was wondering when we were all going to finally meet you."

"Hello, Ron." Eugene says stiffly. "I'd like to inform both of you that I found the disgusting plastic tarantula that you left in dresser this morning. Very classy of you."

"That wasn't us," Carl says, putting his hands up in surrender.

Eugene rolls his eyes. "Of course it wasn't, because someone else would take the time to pick all of the newly installed locks on my doors, sneak into my bedroom, and place a replica of a terrifying arachnid in my dresser."

"It wasn't them. It was me," Rosita admits with a smile.

Eugene stares at her in shock. "Why on earth would you do that?"

Rosita shrugs. "I was bored. Besides, I live with you so it was convenient. I just walked down the hall and into your bedroom. It was funny as hell too! The way you screamed...oh man!"

Eugene glares at her. "Watch your back Miss Espinosa because I will get, as the kids say, 'Even Steven' with you."

Carl and Ron laugh as Eugene stews. Carl manages to pull Ron into the kitchen to prepare themselves plates for dinner.

"I know that they're all probably annoying the hell out of you right now, but they're actually really welcoming and nice," Ron says.

Carl laughs. "Its easier to like someone else's family because you don't live with them."

Ron snorts. "That's true."

The second Rick walks in the front door, everyone starts to take a seat. Ron and Carl end up sitting with Daryl, Michonne, Carol, Rick, and Sasha.

"So...you must be Ron Anderson," Daryl inquires, eating his salad and pork with his hands as expected.

Ron nods. "Yep. And you must be...Daryl right?"

Daryl nods. "Yeah, Carl tell you about me?"

Ron nods.

Daryl laughs. "You probably only know a quarter about me of what I know about you. Carl talks about you a lot, kid. You must be interestin' or special or somethin'."

Carl feels his face flush and Ron beams.

"Yeah, Carl does talk about you a lot," Michonne agrees, leering at Carl. He simply glares at her.

Sasha smiles. "He does. Anyway, my names Sasha," she says, reaching across the table to shake his hand. "And I already know that you're Ron Anderson, you love DC Comics almost as much as Carl does, you have a radio in your room, and that you spend forever roasting marshmallows but that you can roast them 'properly'- whatever the hell that means."

Ron laughs as he shakes her hand and gives Carl a teasing kick under the table. Carl feels his ears and cheeks burn red.

"Uh, Ron, this is Carol and this is my dad," Carl says, assuming its best to just Introduce them quickly to avoid further embarrassment.

Carol gives him a friendly smile and a hand shake. "Nice to meet you."

Ron smiles back at her, returning the handshake. "You too." He feels his palms involuntarily sweat and tremble a little as Rick turns to face him because he knows that this man is the reason why he has to lie to his dad and that his dad despises this man and he can't even imagine how furious his dad would be if he knew that his son was eating dinner with Rick Grimes

"Nice to meet you Ron. It's great to finally personally get to know you since my son comes home every evening and talks about you for hours."

Ron smiles at Rick and shakes his hand. "Nice to finally meet you too."

"You know, I promised Carl last night that I was going to embarrass the hell out of him and I'm not one to break promises. So, Ron, has Carl ever told you the story about the time that he ate 112 ounces of chocolate pudding in one sitting and lost his shoe?" Michonne asks.

Daryl laughs. "Or about that one time he accidentally lit a kitchen on fire?"

"Or the time he time he tried to playing Scrabble with Hershel? That was pretty funny," Rick muses.

"Ok, in my defense, I had no idea how advanced Hershel's vocabulary was," Carl says.

"Carl, you lost 120 to 760."

"Its not my fault, seriously, who the hell knew that 'vociferous' is a real word?"

Ron is laughing so hard it looks like he might piss himself. "I've already heard the chocolate pudding story, but this kitchen being lit on fire is news to me."

Michonne grins before beginning the story. Carl groans again, tempted to bash his head off the table repeatedly.  
-

Its a really great dinner. Ron enjoys getting to meet all of Carl's family members, and even though they are as outlandish and weird as Carl said they would be, Ron really likes them. They all seem nice enough, unique, and down-to-earth. He also loves watching Carl and Michonne make faces at each other as she tells horribly embarrassing stories about Carl. (Although Ron already heard the majority of them already, but they're still funny) He also finds their flaws funny and doesn't really mind. Like how Rick asks him a billion questions, and how he can clearly hear Abraham talking about his urinary tract infection shamelessly a few feet away, Judith crying throughout the meal, and especially how they all keep staring at him like he's an exotic creature. The staring thing is a little bit creepy and uncomfortable, and so are Rick's questions, and he knows more about Abraham's UTI than he ever wanted to know, but he genuinely enjoys himself.

What Ron finds the most entertaining though is when Carl's family members tell him how much he talks about him. It actually makes his heart beat a little faster and that usual bubbling feeling kick in when they mention how much Carl rambles on about him. He supposes that its nice to think that Carl actually likes him enough to constantly talk about him and its also a rather pleasant idea to think that Carl likes him as much as he likes Carl. He doesn't know why it makes him so happy, but it does. Ron obviously doesn't talk about Carl very much in front of his dad, but his mom is constantly teasing him because he always excitedly babbles to her about his and Carl's escapades at night after his dad has gone to bed. Its nice to think he talks about him just as much.

"And your dad's a surgeon right?" Rick asks.

Ron nods.

"Where'd he get his degree from?" Rick asks.

Ron shrugs.

"Your mom is a hairdresser?"

"Yep."

"Did she own her own salon or work in someone else's?"

"She worked in her friend's salon after going to beauty school."

"Ah. And, how old are you?"

"14."

Carl is looks at his dad with a mixture of annoyance and confusion. He's been questioning Ron for twenty minutes now, and the questions are just starting to get pointless and weird. Daryl, Carol and Michonne are all starting to get annoyed too. Daryl and Carol feel bad for the kid, knowing that Rick tends to ask too many questions and make you feel uncomfortable. Michonne feels the same way, having personal experience with being interrogated by Rick. She remembers how the questions just got bizarre at one point, like he when he asked if she'd ever been to California and if she had an STD.

"Ok Rick, I think this game of 20 Questions is over because you've long since blown past the mandatory twenty questions," Michonne says.

"Yeah, I think Ron feels like he's in court at this point," Carol agrees

Rick nods. "Alright, sorry Ron. Sometimes I get ahead of myself."

Ron just shrugs. "It's fine Mr. Grimes." A part of him wonders if Rick just started asking family related questions to get information about his mom, but he doesn't ask. Speaking of mom's, Ron notices that Carl's missing his mom. He knows that he Carl's biological mom must've been around in the last two years since he has a two year old sister. At first he thought maybe Michonne was the mother, but he realized that Carl and Judith would have much darker tints to their skin if she were the biological mom. The same goes for Sasha, Maggie is with Glenn, Rosita is with Abraham, Tara gives him a 'lesbian' vibe, and Carol has mentioned loving Judith 'like her own daughter' over the course of dinner, so he knows she's not really Judith's mom. Ron grimly and accurately assumes the worst and decides not to ask. Maybe he'll talk to Carl about it later.

"Alright, well I made some meringue pie and I think it turned out well. Who wants a slice?" Carol offers with a smile.  
-

After some amazing pie, Ron thanks Carol for the meal, and Carl and he start to head home.

"See you again soon kid!" Daryl yells after them. Ron smiles despite himself.

The second the front door closes behind them, Carl lets out a deep sigh and buries his face in his hands. He smiles at his friend. "They can be a bit much, but I love them and they're awesome, ok? And I swear my dad's not weird, he's just overly curious and asks things he shouldn't. Im sorry that you were interrogated and examined like a wild animal. And I'm also sorry that Tara has no concept of personal space and that Abraham doesn't know what kind of things to share with people and what kind if things to keep to himself."

Ron just laughs. "Seriously, its fine! All families are a little rambunctious, I get it. Besides, my mom played 20 Questions with you almost every time I had you over for dinner, so its only fair that your dad play it with me, right? I actually really like your family, they're cool."

Carl smiles at him gratefully.

"Besides, Carol's pie is totally worth listening to Abraham talk about his UTI for. Plus, your mom is really funny," Ron adds without thinking. He cringes when he realizes what he said.

"Michonne's not my mom," Carl says. "I mean, she sort of is at this point but...not really."

Ron nods. "I know I'm sorry, I wasn't thinking about what I was saying."

Carl shrugs. "It's no big deal. I sorta see her as a mother/ older sister figure because she's bossy."

Ron smiles at him. "Well, I'm really glad I met your family. But since I held my end of the deal you've gotta keep yours."

Carl holds out his hand. "Alright, its a deal. I'll stay inside the walls." Ron grins and shakes his hand, sealing the deal.

"So...you talk about me a lot, huh?" Ron teases.

Carl laughs and shoves him. "Don't flatter yourself, I also talk about Batman a lot too apparently."

Ron just smiles and shrugs. "It's just nice to hear that you think about me when I'm not around."

Carl rolls his eyes as they approach Ron's house. He's about to say something snarky and sarcastic when his heart overrules his head and makes him say: "Who else would I waste all night thinking and bragging to my family about?"

Ron looks at him with a sincere smile. "I don't know, maybe Batman. But I'm glad its me, because I think my mom gets sick of me talking about you 24/7."

Carl smiles back at him and hands him four wrapped up pieces of leftover pie. "Here. You can share this with your family or hide it away for yourself."

"Its so fucking good that I might just hide it away," Ron says. "Well...see you tomorrow?"

Carl nods. "Yeah."

He's not as surprised this time when he receives a giant hug, but just as happy. He walks home with a relaxed smile on his face, feeling carefree and ready to face Michonne's merciless teasing that he hates but couldn't live without.


	5. Holmes Can Smell the Pheromones

DISCLAIMER: I don't own The Walking Dead.

Ron walks into his house with a smile as big as the Cheshire Cat's plastered onto his face. He's in a great mood after having dinner with Carl and his big family that puts the 'fun' in dysfunctional. He knows he can't ramble on about it like he wants to yet because its early evening so his dad is probably still up, but the second his dad stumbles up the stairs and flops into bed, Ron has a bazillion things to tell his mom. Despite whether or not she teases him about his 'Carl Infatuation'.

"Hey guys, how are-" he cuts himself off as he enters the kitchen, taken aback by what he sees. He only has to look around the room once to be able to tell that dinner at his own house hadn't been nearly as fun and easygoing as it had been at Carl's house: the kitchen table is flipped over, shards of glass and ceramic from broken plates and glasses are strewn across the floor, the food that Ron assumes was for dinner is also smeared all over the floor, puddles of water and what looks and smells like alcohol are everywhere, and many of his mom's paintings that are usually hung on the walls are lying on the ground. None of his family members are anywhere to be seen and the house is completely silent and still.

Ron stares at the scene of disarray in dismay, holding his breath as he looks around and takes it all in. The good vibes that he'd picked up at Carl's house quickly fade away and a feeling of dread makes its presence. This isn't the first time that he's come home to find his house trashed and seemingly desolate, not even close, but he still always feels shaken up when it happens.

"Mom?" He calls, not taking his eyes off of the flipped over table. He's not even sure why he calls her because if this is going to go how it's gone for the last four million times, he knows she's probably unconscious and can't hear him. He feels his heart sink. Why can't everything just go right for one fucking day? "Mom?" He calls again, looking at the room and feeling a little sick to his stomach. "Sam? Sam? Hey, can anyone hear me?" He weakly calls out. He doesn't waste his breath yelling. He knows no one is going to come bounding down the stairs to greet him. He looks at the trashed room morbidly and shoves his hands in his pockets.

He closes his eyes so that he can figure out how to even begin cleaning up this mess. 'Alright, this sucks. Its like whenever I think lifes improving everything just HAS to all go down the drain. I wonder why dad had a fit this time, besides the alcohol fueled rage of course. Ok, I guess I should start by setting the table back up, then sweeping up all the glass. Then I can mop the floor and pick up the paintings. I hope moms ok. Jesus, what if she has another concussion? If she gets too many will she have major brain damage?! What would ee do if she suffered major brain damage?! Ok, calm down, man. Take it easy. When I'm done cleaning, I'll go check on her. She's probably in bed. That's usually where she goes after dad goes ape-shit. I should check in on Sam too, this kinda stuff never gets easy. But first I gotta clean up this disaster,' he mentally instructs himself, still keeping his eyes shut and ignoring the mess. Its great to act like the kitchen isn't trashed and that everything's fine and dandy, but he forces himself to open his eyes and come back to suck-ass reality because he knows that there's shit he needs to get done.

He struggles to pull the heavy table back up so that its standing on all four legs again. As he tugs it back up, more shards of broken glass and plate slide off the tabletop and fall to the tile floor with a crash. Chunks of meatloaf and noodles tumble off the tabletop too and hit the ground with a splat. After the table is standing again, he fetches the broom out of the closet and begins to sweep up all of the pieces of glass and ceramic. He absent mindedly talks to himself as he sweeps to make some noise because the whole house being silent is starting to creep him out.

"Looks like they had spaghetti and leftover meatloaf for dinner," he mutters dryly, observing the clumps of noodles, meat, and chunky red sauce staining some of the broken pieces of plate and the floor. He scrunches up his face in disgust as he notices some of the shards of glass are a peculiar green color, the same color of the bottles that his dad's beer comes in. "Niiiice dad," he mutters, looking at the puddles of water and alcohol spread across floor and dampening both his mood and his sneakers. Anger starts simmering in the pit of his stomach as he thinks about the fact that his dad did this. His dad, a fully grown adult man trashed the kitchen like a three year old having a tantrum. But his tantrums are much more scary and dangerous compared to those of a toddler. Most people don't get bruises, broken bones, and black eyes from little kids' fits. He clenches the broom so tight that his knuckles turn white and his vision blurs with angry tears. He's so fucking sick of this sort if shit. He's sick of his dad yelling and screaming and throwing stuff around. He's sick of him hitting his mom and kicking her around like a fucking dog. He's sick of his dad looming around like a dark cloud and forcing them to live in constant fear and anxiety. He's sick of getting shoved around and put down. He's sick of his dad throwing tantrums and wrecking the house. He hates him more than words can express and he's just done. But...he knows this emotional and mental revolution won't last. He's gotten pissed and been 'done' billions of times, yet nothing has ever changed.

He finishes sweeping up the floor and throws the pieces of ceramic and glass in the trash. The kitchen still isn't clean, there's food, water, and beer all over the floor and the paintings are still lying on the ground. As he lugs a bucket and the mop out of the closet, he considers confronting Deanna about the shit his dad does. He wonders if she'd be able to straighten him out and sober him up. Would she help him, or just continue to ignore the problem like she has been for the last two years?If there's the slightest chance she would help...  
Ron quickly dispels the idea. He's thought about telling someone and getting help thousands of times, but he can never bring himself to go through with it. He always convinces himself that it'll all be ok somehow, mostly because the consequences of getting help are more prominent to him than the rewards. If Deanna doesn't help him and his dad hears about him trying to get help, he might actually beat him or his mom to death or he might hurt Sam, and Ron would never be able to forgive himself if his dad beat the shit out of his baby brother because of something he did.

The biggest fear of Ron's about getting help though is that Deanna won't do anything. He's terrified that he'll finally ask for some long-needed help, and he won't receive any. He would honestly have no idea what the hell to do or where to turn if no one would help him. He's so afraid of the rejection that he keeps suffering in silence rather than feel completely deserted and helpless. Sometimes during his angry hazes after one of his dad's outbursts, Ron considers standing up to his dad himself. He thinks about hitting back or calling him out. But once the anger deserts him and is replaced with a sad hollow feeling, he finds his common sense and realizes that fighting back would be a fruitless death sentence and calling him out on anything would also end in his mom and brother having to bury him.

He finally manages to clean up all of the bits of food and scrub all of the sauce off the floor. He also wipes down the table and starts to rehang his mom's paintings on the wall. He feels bad when he sees that most of them are ripped, torn, and just generally damaged beyond repair. He hates that his dad goes after his mom's artwork during his rages. He sees how happy she is when she's painting and drawing and he knows that she spends days, sometimes even weeks, completing and perfecting her art projects. So when his dad ignorantly destroys them, he can't help but feel both pissed off beyond belief and disheartened.

"Aw," he murmurs sadly, picking up a painting of a field of tulips that's bashed in through the middle like his dad punched through it. He shoves it in the trash, biting his lip and feeling guilty as he disposes of the ruined painting. He always feels bad throwing them away, but they're always totally ruined and there's nothing he can do to fix them. His mom always acts like its cool, laughing it off and telling Ron that its ok that his dad destroyed them because she can just paint new pictures to replace them, but Ron can tell she's masking her frustration and sadness. Several other paintings and drawings that are torn in half and ripped into shreds are piled into the trash.

He does feel a little better when he discovers that three of the paintings are unharmed besides being knocked onto the floor. He smiles as he re-hangs them. The first is of two doves, the second of a log cabin in the woods, and the third is just a skyline with a sunset.

"So, you're the survivors, huh? You three managed to get out of the Rage Storm alive," he mutters playfully, stepping back and admiring the paintings.

As usual, the anger has disappeared, replaced by the familiar feeling of hopelessness and slight despair. It burns in his chest.

"Good job, you managed to clean up the kitchen all by yourself," he mutters to himself, looking around the room and feeling slight satisfaction with how nice the kitchen looks compared to the mess he walked in on. He starts to creep up the steps to locate his mother and brother.

He knows where Sam is. Whenever something bad happens, Sam hides in his bedroom closet and locks himself in, just like their mom taught him to.

Ron walks into his brother's room and gently wraps his knuckle against the closet door.

"Hey, Sam, its me. Can you unlock the door?" Ron gently asks.

A few shuffling noises come from inside the closet. "Is dad home?" A meek voice asks.

"No," Ron answers. He's not actually sure if his dad is asleep in bed or out staggering around, but he knows Sam never lets anyone in until the fit is over and their dad has left the scene.

"Are you sure?" Sam whispers, voice quivering.

"Yeah, I looked all over the house and I didn't see him," Ron says, kneeling in front of the closet doors. "He's not here. Can you let me in, Sam?"

He hears the lock click and he leans back as the door creaks open. Ron peers in the dark closet to see his little brother huddled up in the corner, knees pressed against his chest. He stares at Ron with eyes as big as an owl's. Ron crawls in and sits back against the wall next to him.

"You ok?"

"Yeah...dad and mom got into a fight...dad flipped over the table. I ran to my room after that."

"What was the fight about?" Ron asks.

"Dad had a lot to drink, like eight beers. Mom called him an alcoholic and told him that she was scared he'd die. Dad got mad and started yelling about how its his life and he can do what he wants. Mom eventually started crying and stuff got...bad."

Ron feels anger spark in his chest again. "He will eventually drink himself to death," he mutters. "Stupid bastard."

"That's not a nice word," Sam chastises.

Ron smiles over at him and laughs. "You're right, its not. But sometimes bad people deserve bad words to describe them."

"Is dad a bad person?" Sam asks.

Ron sighs and tilts his head back to look up at the ceiling. He's been contemplating that question for years. "No, he's just...messed up and he makes bad decisions."

Sam slowly nods, like he some what understands. "That's what mom says too. Anyway, how was dinner at the Grimes'?"

Ron stares at him in shock. "What? I told you that I was going to eat dinner with Mikey. Why do you think I ate at Carl's house?"

Sam rolls his eyes. "I'm not an idiot. You and mom always tell dad that you're hanging out with Mikey or helping mow our neighbors lawn or something else stupid, but I see you and Carl together all the time and I heard you tell mom that you were gonna eat dinner at his house this afternoon."

"You can't tell dad, do you understand?" Ron says severely, knitting his eyebrows together. He can only imagine what his dad would do if he found out...

"You're acting like I'm stupid, Ron. Why the heck would I tell dad? Dad would freaking kill you if he knew you and Carl were hanging out all the time!"

"I know. Trust me, I know."

"I hear dad talking about Carl's dad, and he makes him sound like a jerk. You met him, is he really?"

Ron laughs a little. "Mr. Grimes? No, he's a little bit too inquisitive, but he's not a jerk."

"Then why does dad think that he is?"

"Because..." Ron wracks his brain for an answer but can't think of any good ones that a kid Sam's age would understand. "Because dad doesn't know him very well."

"I don't know him very well either, but I don't think he's a jerk," Sam replies sourly.

Ron looks at him with pity, assuming that his brother is starting to have the 'my dad is a total jackass' realization that Ron had five years ago. "Yeah, dad's...different. But anyway, to make this horrible evening seem better, I brought you back something."

Sam's eyes light up with excitement. "Really?"

"Yep," Ron says with a smile. He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a wrapped up piece of pie. He hands it to Sam.

Sam smiles as he unwraps it. "I love lemon meringue. Wow, it smells and looks really good!"

"Tastes even better," Ron says with a wink.

Sam smiles and starts to eat it, smearing some of the meringue onto the tip of his nose. "This is really good! Who made it?" He asks, cheeks bulging with chewed up food.

"Carol. She makes some really good desserts. They let me bring home the leftovers," Ron explains, licking his thumb and using it to rub the goo off of his brother's nose. He smiles as he watches Sam practically inhale the slice of pie. "I get the strangest impression that you like it," he jokes.

Sam smiles and nods,using the sleeve of his shirt to wipe off his mouth. Ron laughs quietly and smiles at him.

"Why don't you come eat your pie in the kitchen and I'll get you a plate and a napkin?" Ron offers.

Sam quickly shakes his head. "No."

"Why not?"

"I just... I wanna stay in here."

"I told you that dads gone."

"I know but he's gonna come back!"

"Of course he is, its his house too! But for now he's not here, so why don't you come out?"

"No."

"You gotta come out at one point. What are you gonna do, sleep in your closet?" Ron asks, feeling frustrated. He thinks his brother's petulance is annoying and he also really doesn't want to be alone at the moment and could use some company. Even his little brother's.

Sam nods. "Yeah, I am."

Ron gives him a funny look for a few seconds before sighing. He crawls out of the closet and walks over to Sam's bed. He yanks off the covers and grabs a pillow. "Here, you're gonna need these if you're seriously going to sleep in here," he says, handing his brother the blanket and pillow.

Sam swaddles himself up in the blanket and sets the pillow up against the wall. "Thanks. Hey do you think you could grab my flashlight and some of the comic books off my dresser?"

Ron nods and snatches the flashlight and a few Marvel comics for him. "A little bit of late night reading, eh?" He jokes as he hands them over.

"Only the classics," Sam replies with a smile, opening one of the comic books in his lap and turning on his flashlight. Ron watches him for a few seconds before closing the closet door and walking across the hall to his parents room.

"Hey, mom?" He whispers as he pokes his head into the bedroom. All of the lights are off and the blinds are drawn so that its totally dark in the room. "Mom?" Ron squints so that he can see better. He makes out a lump lying on the right side of the bed. "Hey," he whispers as he pads across the room and stands at the foot of the bed. "Mom, can you hear me?"

The lump shifts and groans. Ron carefully crawls up onto the bed and sits beside his mother's sleeping form. He sets a hand on her shoulder and continues to quietly call her name. She eventually opens her eyes and rolls over to look up at her son. "Hey, when did you get home sweetheart?" She asks groggily, rubbing sleep out of her eyes. She reaches up and lays a cold hand on Ron's cheek.

"An hour ago. How're you?"

"Ah, I'm ok. A little worse for the wear. My head hurts. How are you?"

"Im alright," Ron whispers, trying not to talk too loud since her head hurts. "What happened?" He already knows from Sam, but he wants to hear the story from her point of view instead of that of a scared 11-year old that only witnessed part of the fight before running off to hide.

"Your dad got mad at me because I pointed out how much he'd drunk in one sitting. I swear I wasn't overreacting, he'd drunk a whole six pack within half an hour and was starting on a second. I voiced my concern about his health, telling him that he could very well get alcohol poisoning from his habits and die. He didn't listen to me. I should've shut up, I really should've, but I was upset and I kept nagging. Your dad eventually lost it and started yelling about how its his 'goddamn body' and that he can 'do whatever the hell he wants to it'. It just...escalated from there."

"Yeah, I could tell."

"The kitchen? Oh my god, its trashed, I know," Jessie weakly laughs. "He flipped the table over and started knocking my paintings off the wall."

"Did he get violent tonight or was it just a freak out?" Ron asks quietly.

"Well, he got a little psychical, but not much. When I tried to calm him down he threw against the wall and he kicked me in the head once while I was getting up. He did more damage to the kitchen than he did to me."

"Do you need an ice pack for your head?"

"Already have one," Jessie mutters, pointing to a bag of frozen vegetables lying on her pillow. "But thank you."

Ron thickly swallows. "You don't have to worry, I cleaned up the kitchen."

"Aw, honey, you didn't have to do that. Thank you."

"Its fine, mom. I checked on Sam too, he's ok, so you can just get some rest."

Jessie grabs her son's hand and gives it a squeeze. "I'm not sleepy anymore. Entertain me. How was your evening? Was Carl's family nice?"

"You look tired mom. We should talk later."

"I am tired, but I'm eager to know how it went. Besides, I bet you're just DYING to tell me all about Carl and his family. Its ok, I know you can't help it, what with your Carl Infatuation and what not," his mom teases.

Ron laughs. He both loves and hates that even after something awful happens, his mom manages to bounce back and stay humorous and positive. He loves it because it shows that she's strong and isn't going to break and it actually makes him less scared and gives him hope. He hates it because sometimes he feels her flippant reaction to his dad's behavior is her way of cooping without getting help because she's too afraid to. "Alright, his family members are all weird and zany, but they're really nice. Mr. Grimes asked me a bazillion questions, Judith cried a lot, Daryl has never heard of eating utensils, Abraham is one of those TMI people, and everyone stared me down like an animal in the zoo... but it was still awesome."

"That's good. What'd you eat?"

"Pork and salad. Carol made really good lemon meringue pie for dessert. I saved you a piece," Ron says, offering the tinfoil package to her.

"That's very sweet of you, but I don't think I can eat right now. Could you put it in the fridge?"

"Yeah, I'll go do that," he says, going to stand up.

Jessie reaches out and grabs him by the arm. "Thanks for everything. I love you."

Ron smiles at her as she sits up to place a kiss to his cheek. "I love you too. You want some Advil for the pain?"

"I already took some, but thanks. I think I just need to sleep it off," Jessie says, lying back down.

Ron nods and quietly slips out of the bedroom and back down the steps. He sticks the remaining three pieces of pie in the fridge before collapsing onto the couch and closing his eyes. He's emotionally drained and exhausted. "Fuck my life..." He mutters with a groan. He hates how he had been having a great day and then he got home and his dad managed to knock it down a peg.

As he lies on the couch, he considers going back over to Carl's house. Would Carl mind if he went back over for a little while? He just REALLY needs someone to talk to, and Carl is one of the best listeners Ron has ever met. He just wants to sit down and bitch about his dad... and maybe cry a little. He knows that Carl will listen, he always does. Every time Ron has vented about his dad, he's lent a sympathetic ear and given him comforting hugs. Ron always feels better after he's gotten it all out in and he can slump against his friend in relief. Everything just FEELS easier with Carl. He feels better and his head seems to clear, like his brain is some kind of crystal ball that Carl can read and help him understand.

But...stuff is sort of weird with Carl too. Its difficult for Ron to explain, he feels comfortable around him and trusts him and they have an amazing understanding of one another. Honestly, Carl Grimes is one of his favorite people. But sometimes Ron feels wonky around him. Like sometimes his brain gets fuzzy and he gets tongue tied around him. Sometimes when he laughs or smiles at him his heart starts beating so hard that he's certain Carl can hear it hammering away in his chest. He also knows that he spends an excessive amount of time thinking about Carl, and his lips always stretch into a happy smile when he thinks about him. The weirdest thing he does though, is sometimes he seriously contemplates grabbing Carl by the hand or grazing his lips over his cheek. He WANTS to be just as close to him psychically as he wants to be emotionally. He knows that that's freaky and weird, because last time he checked, friends don't hold hands or kiss each other. He's been having these bizarre feelings for almost 2 weeks now, and he doesn't know what to do. If he didn't know any better he'd think he mysteriously contracts the flu when Carl's around, because he suddenly gets all warm like he has a fever and clammy with nerves.

But the good feelings greatly outweigh the awkward ones, and Ron could really use a friend at the moment. He quickly decides that he'll go out into the yard, gather some sticks, run over to the Grimes house, and throw sticks at Carl's bedroom window until he comes downstairs. It worked last time.

"Yeah, that's what I'll do," Ron whispers, lips turning upwards into a smile. But as he stands up, he hears the front door bang open. He freezes and thickly swallows. The familiar scent of alcohol and hand sanitizer wafts into the room. The smile falls off his face as he grimly realizes who just loudly barged into the house. He turns around to watch his dad stumble into the room.

Pete doesn't look good (but Ron has very few memories where he DOES look ok and healthy). His eyes are bloodshot, his hair is a greasy mess, he looks like he's in dire need of a shave with graying blond whiskers covering his chin and cheeks, and he's wobbling as if struggling to stay standing on his own two legs. Ron just stares at him, feeling a mix of relief and anger. The relief is that his dad MANAGED to stumble home without injuring himself or anyone else, the anger is for the actions that he took before leaving the house.

Pete looks over at him, staring right through Ron, as if he's invisible. After a few seconds, Pete squints at him and his lips flicker into a smile. "Eeeeey. R-Ron, wh-wheeerree you been latelyyyy? 'aven't seen yoouuu around muuuch lately oooorrr a' dinner tonightttt," he slurs, tripping over himself as he tries to stagger over to his son.

"Yeah, I ate dinner at Mikey's tonight," Ron replies stiffly. When he had been younger, he'd forced smiles onto his face and acted like everything was ok for his dad's sake, but ever since entering his 'moody rebellious teenager' stage of his life, he hasn't even tried to be accommodating with his dad's 'special situation'.

Pete just looks him over. "Weeeell, gla-aaa-d your backkkkk," he splutters. "Miiiissssed ya, kid. Miiiisssed seein' 'ur face looookin' at me from 'cross the taaaable."

Ron flinches out of instinct as his dad approaches him. Pete pats him on the back and leans in close. Ron gags at the heavy smell of alcohol coming off of his dad. The scent is so overpowering that it makes his eyes water. 'He must sweat alcohol. Or instead of blood in his veins, he has booze,' Ron thinks with disgust, still coughing and flinching as his dad drunkenly smiles down at him. Pete gives his son a sloppy kiss on the forehead. It tickles when his facial fuzz touches Ron's skin.

"Geeeet ssssome sleep, kid," Pete slurs before patting his son on the back again and tripping up the stairs and disappearing into his and Jessie's room.

Ron watches him go and stands there in a daze. He runs his fingers over the spot where his dad gave him a whiskery whiskey kiss. It would actually hurt him less if Pete had hit him instead of kissed him. He hates when his dad is a good guy, as fucked up as it sounds. Because when his dad shows love and affection towards him, it makes Ron stop and think, and it forces him to realize that deep down, he loves his dad. A part of him will ALWAYS love his old man, no matter how hard he hits or how much damage he does. It makes Ron see that his dad isn't completely bad, that he's just broken and screwed up. And it makes him feel conflicted and lost to think that the man who causes him so much fear and pain loves him.  
.-

When Carl gets back from dropping Ron off, he's bombarded by his family members and their playful taunting. He good naturedly rolls his eyes and laughs at their remarks. They mostly just continue teasing him about how much he talks about Ron, and its a little annoying, but Carl can deal with it.

After everyone has gone home for the evening, Carl's real torture begins. Michonne pulls him down next to her on the couch.

"So...did we manage to tell Ron all of your embarrassing stories?" She asks with a smile.

Carl dramatically and jokingly sighs. "I think so. He may never want to see me again after learning about my huge Scrabble defeat and how I accidentally got my head stuck in the bars of my cell at the prison. He now knows of all of my downfalls and shortcomings, thanks to you guys. Thanks for ruining my life."

Michonne laughs and ruffles his hair. "Aw, I'm sorry Carl. I thought that the apocalypse ruined your life, but I guess I'm so terrible that I did instead."

Carl smiles at her. "Yes, you did because you're synonymous with diabolical."

Michonne makes a face of fake shock and lightly slaps him. "How dare you! As I told you last night, I'm synonymous with flawless! And how the hell do you know the word 'diabolical'? You might've won that Scrabble game if you'd used words like that."

Carl groans and Michonne laughs. "If you're just going to sit here and insult my Scrabble skills, I'm going upstairs," he threatens with a smile, starting to stand up.

Michonne, still chuckling to herself, grabs him by the arm and keeps him on the couch. "Alright, alright. I'm sorry that I degraded your skills, you glorious god of Scrabble. I won't do it again."

There's a moment of silence between them as Carl shifts his position on the couch so that he can lay his head on Michonne's shoulder.

"So...Ron Anderson, huh?" She muses as she weaves her fingers through his brown hair.

Carl quirks an eyebrow and looks up at her quizzically. "Yeah, what about him?"

Michonne just keeps smiling and nudges Carl's foot with her own. "I'm glad I finally got to meet him. He seems like a cool kid."

"He is."

"He seems really nice too. And friendly."

Carl nods, still looking at Michonne in confusion. "Yeah."

"He also gives off a relaxed and unjudgmental feel." She drones, rolling a few strands of Carl's hair between her thumb and index finger.

"Mmhmm," Carl mutters with a yawn and a smile.

"And he's patient."

"Yep."

"And sweet."

"Uh-huh."

"He's also really cute," Michonne says slyly.

"Yeah... Wh-wh-what?! Huh?" Carl does a double take, his entire face turning as red as Abraham's hair. He bolts up and quickly pushes himself away from Michonne.

Michonne laughs at his stuttering. "I said that he's cute."

Carl looks at her like she's crazy, his right eyelid twitching. "What the actual fuck, Michonne?! Seriously?"

She just smiles at him. "Well, he is, isn't he? He's got nice brown eyes that are the same earthy color as dark coffee. And he has nice thick blond hair, but he hides it under that stupid beanie. He's got a pretty face in general, it has nice structure. The only off-putting thing about him is his dorky smile. It's all teeth and its too big, but besides that, he's cute."

"His smile is one of my favorite things about him actually. It's one of the best smiles I've ever seen," Carl murmurs without thinking, a dopey grin on his face as he pictures that toothy, twitchy, too-big smile Ron gets on his face when he's happy.

Michonne's laughter jolts him out of his reverie. "His smile huh? You think its cute?"

"I never said it was cute!"

"But you said that it's one of the best smiles you've seen. Why?"

Carl shrugs, still blushing. "I dunno. I guess..." He trails off awkwardly. He doesn't know why he loves Ron's smile. Its just...unique? Whenever Ron smiles, it makes his stomach feel weird, but in a good way, sort of like a trampoline with a bunch of people jumping on it. His heart also beats faster and his throat gets dry when Ron smiles at him. Not that he'd ever tell Michonne that.

Michonne watches his face turn red. She grins and lowers her lips next to Carl's ear so that she can whisper to him. "I think I know why you like his smile. Does his smile give you butterflies in your stomach? Does it make your cheeks feel warm and your palms sweat? When he smiles at you, does your heart flutter around nervously? Do your mouth and throat get all dry and tight and your mind goes fuzzy, like radio station static? Huh?"

Carl feels his heart skip a beat. His entire face and neck are bright red. He hates how easily Michonne can get into his head and seemingly read his thoughts and emotions. Granted, sometimes its good that she can, because Carl tends to get lost in his head and needs someone to pull him out, and sometimes his dad doesn't understand him or get where he's coming from and Michonne can bridge the gap and explain everything to his dad that Carl is too stubborn or scared to. But at times like this, Michonne's seemingly psychic abilities just embarrass him and piss him off.

Michonne smiles as she watches Carl's face flush more and more. "How about his laugh? Do you like his laugh?"

Carl just looks at his feet and licks his lips nervously.

"I bet when he laughs, you're heart skips a beat and you light up like a Christmas tree."

Carl groans. "Cliche much?" He manages to choke out, trying to be snarky and play it off but failing.

Michonne smiles and pulls him into a hug. "Well, HE sure as hell lights up when YOU laugh."

"Does not," Carl mutters, almost looking a little down-cast.

"Does too! He stared at you throughout dinner, honestly, his eyes never left you. And everytime you smiled, he beamed."

Carl looks at her, trying to find a way to end this horribly awkward conversation. "Why are we talking about this? Seriously, why?"

Michonne sighs happily. "Because I forgot that you've become a hormonal teenager and that you're growing up."

"Yeah, before you know it I'll be going off to college," Carl replies, regaining some of his sarcastic grace.

"You can't go off to college! Who will I play charades and I Spy with? Who will I share my candy bars with? Who's hat will I steal? Who will I tease?!"

Carl laughs, wrapping his arms around Michonne. "Alright, I'll stay, but only because we're friends and I love you."

Michonne gives him a squeeze. "I love you too."

After a few seconds Carl untangles himself from her and stands up. "Goodnight. Im gonna go to bed. Enjoy playing charades by yourself."

Michonne smiles. "Goodnight. Go to bed and dream about how cute Ron's smile is."

"I never said that he's cute, he's my best friend," Carl says sounding exasperated and embarrassed.

Michonne shrugs. "It doesn't have to mean anything. You're one of my best friends and I think that you're pretty fucking adorable sometimes."

"Well of course you do. I AM adorable," Carl replies jokingly.

Michonne smiles and tilts her head to the side. "You are adorable and you have a stunning smile."

"Why thank you, I try," Carl says sarcastically, batting his eyelashes.

"Hey, maybe since you have a great smile, you can teach Ron to smile better so that his isn't so awkward and dorky!" Michonne teases.

"His smile isn't dorky and awkward, its cute," Carl replies seriously, crossing his arms over his chest. It takes a second for what he said to sink in.

His eyes get as wide as saucers when he realizes what he said. He buries his face in his hands and cringes as Michonne nearly dies of laughter, her face turning pink and tears of laughter rolling down her cheeks.

"I'm going to bed. Screw you, Michonne," he mutters, starting to run for the staircase.

"W-wait! Hahaha! Seriously, Carl, c-come back! I'm sorry! I'll s-s-stop teasing you and we'll play some charades!" She chokes out through her laughter. "H-here, guess who I am!"

Carl turns around to see her wearing a really big, awkward, twitchy, smile. He groans out in exasperation and throws his head back. "His smile doesn't look like that! You're just being mean now."

"Aw, y-your right, I'm sorry, it wasn't cute enough," she manages to say before going into another fit of hysterical laughter.

Carl groans again, feeling like an idiot for letting that slip out. The sound of Michonne's laughter chases him up the stairs.

Rick walks in just in time to see his son retreating up the stairs hurriedly and telling Michonne to 'screw off' while Michonne is practically dying of laughter on the couch, yelling for Carl to 'come back and finish playing charades'.

"What'd I miss?"  
-

"Hey, c'mon sleepy head! Get up!" A voice chirps in Ron's ear. He groans and rolls over, trying to ignore the hand laying on his side and gently shaking him. "C'mon, get up!"

"Whaaaat?" He groans with irritation.

"I made waffles for breakfast and if you want any, you better get up and come get some before your brother eats them all," his mom says in a sing-song voice.

Ron just groans again, rubbing a hand over his face.

"C'mon, get up. Hey, did you sleep on the couch last night?"

Ron's about to lie and say 'no' but he realizes that its the stupidest lie ever since he's lying on the couch wearing the same clothes he had on yesterday. "Yeah. Sue me."

Jessie laughs. "There must be something wrong with the beds in this house. You slept on the sofa and your brother slept in his closet. Now, c'mon get up! If you don't come eat now, I'm going to start singing."

"See, that's a dumb threat. If you said 'I'm going to kick your ass' or 'I'm going to skin you alive' I might actually get scared and get up. But no, you'll start singing and I can just block you out," Ron says, still keeping his eyes shut.

Jessie smiles and clears her throat. "Come gather 'round people wherever you roam! And admit that the waters around you have grown! Accept that soon you'll be drenched to the bone!" She sings loudly in her son's ear. "If your time to you is worth savin' then you better start swimmin', you could sink like a stone! For the times they are a-changin'!"

Ron groans and opens his eyes. "Ok, ok, I'm up, Mr. Dylan!" He mutters. He looks over at his mom to insult her singing skills, but the words dry up in his mouth when he spots the huge purple bruise on her forehead. Ron has seen his mom scuffed up before, but he's never been able to get used to it and still finds it upsetting. He can't help but stare at it with narrowed eyes.

Jessie seems to automatically know what he's staring at and quickly says, "Yeah, nice bruise, huh? I'm such a clutz, I need to be more careful when getting in and out of the bath tub."

Ron rolls his eyes at her as he stands up. "Fell in the bath tub, huh? I wasn't aware that bath tubs were able to power kick you in the head."

Jessie groans. "Please don't start this shit today, Ron. Your brother's been staring at the bruise all morning and I don't want to-"

"Don't want to talk about it? Ok, fine. Anyway, where is the bath tub that kicked you in the head? Did it go to work already?"

"Your father left really early this morning. Someone got shot and needed surgery right away," Jessie says, putting as much emphasis as possible on the words 'your' and 'father'. 'Luke, I am your father,' Ron thinks bitterly with a smile.

Ron scoffs as he walks past her, but he doesn't say anything else. He's still in a pretty foul mood from last night, and all he wants to do is get out of the house. But first, he thinks he's going to eat some breakfast, because his mom's waffles are literally the best thing on the planet. Besides Carl Grimes and headphones. He follows the sweet aroma of maple syrup and strawberries into the kitchen. He spots Sam already sitting at the table with a plate full of waffles that are drenched in syrup.

"Want some waffles with that syrup?" He asks his brother as he fixes himself a plate.

Sam just blows a raspberry at him as he shovels another forkful into his mouth. "Want some friends with that attitude?" He quips back.

Ron ignores him and seats himself at the table. Jessie sits beside him and smiles. "So...I was tired last night and didn't get to hear all about your evening," Jessie prompts, looking at her older son.

"I did tell you about it, remember?"

"Yeah, you told me the basics of what happened, but not everything. C'mon, I know you've got a lot more to tell me!" She says with a smile.

"Not really," Ron lies. Truthfully, he could talk about having dinner with Carl's family for hours, but he's just not biting the bait that his mom set out. He knows she's just trying to get him to talk about something the makes him happy so that he feels better. He's perfectly happy being miserable without her and her stupid bath tub bruise trying to help him feel better, thank you very much.

"Oh c'mon, we all know that that's a lie," Jessie says, nudging her son with her elbow. "You usually spend at least an hour telling me about your day and you only talked for like a minute and a half last night!"

"Yeah, c'mon! Even I know that you've got more to say," Sam says.

Ron groans. "This doesn't even involve you!"

"Sure it does! I know all about what you and Carl do cuz I eavesdrop on you and mom in the evenings! You do usually talk about him for more than a minute and a half."

Ron just rolls his eyes at him. "Whatever. I eavesdrop on you sometimes too and I know that you pissed the bed after watching Gremlins."

Sam cries out in outrage and Ron smirks triumphantly. "Why are you so mean?!"

"I'm not mean, I'm honest."

"It's none of your business!"

"Sure it is!" Ron mocks in his best Sam voice.

Sam scowls at him. "I only did that once! You talk to mom every day-"

Jessie rolls her eyes. "Alright you two, quit it!"

Ron just laughs as Sam glares at him from across the table. To avoid his full blown wrath, he quickly finishes his breakfast, sets his plate in the sink, and runs up the stairs to get changed out of yesterday's clothes before Sam can retaliate by saying something embarrassing about him.

"Where are you going?" Jessie asks as Ron returns back downstairs and puts his jacket on.

"Disney Land," he says with a straight face.

Jessie groans. "Seriously Ron, where are you-"

Before she can finish asking, Ron has run out the front door. Jessie just sighs and throws her hands up in defeat.

"Don't worry mom, he's going-"

"I know where he's going, I just don't want him shutting me out," Jessie says, shaking her head.

"He's not shutting you out he's just being...selective about what he tells you." Sam says, trying to make his mom feel better. "He isn't trying to upset you, mom. I think he knows that you know where he's going."

Jessie laughs a little. "Yeah, but I could live without the moody sarcasm."

"Anyone can understand typical jokes, but only smart people understand sarcasm. Its a great way to get your point across while insulting idiots," Sam says.

"That's cute," Jessie says with a smile.

"Oh, I didn't come up with it," Sam admits.

"Who did?"

"Ron."

Jessie laughs. "Of course he did. Justifying his own flaws. That's my boy."  
-

Carl is enjoying his breakfast in solitude on the front porch. Its a nice morning and its early enough that the streets of Alexandria are still quiet and empty. He appreciates the quiet moments in his life because they are few and far between. Life out on the road was never quiet, and life inside the walls isn't either. Judith is always crying or fussing, and in those glorious moments that she's not, his dad decides to sing Johnny Cash songs at the top of his lungs or Michonne starts to sharpen her katana with a metal file and whetstone. (when she sharpens her katana it makes terrible screeching noises, much like that of a cat sharpening its claws on a chalk board while learning to play violin. Carl would rather listen to his dad sing every song from the musical Grease than listen to Michonne sharpening her sword for two minutes. That's saying something.)

His quiet solitude is ruined when Michonne comes out onto the porch and joins him. "Morning," she greets.

Carl nods. "Morning. Did you come out here to finish our game of charades from last night?"

Michonne cheekily smiles at him. "No, we both know that I'm the queen of charades and that I can kick your ass any day. I figured I'd be merciful and call it off instead of completely destroying you."

Carl rolls his eyes at her and laughs. "Gee, thanks. I feel so blessed."

"You're welcome!" Michonne says with a smile, stealing half of Carl's toast off of his plate. He gives her a look and raises an eyebrow, and she replies by stealing the other half.

"That's my toast."

"Sharing is caring," Michonne says simply, taking a bite.

Carl smiles and shakes his head. "So...what've you got planned for today since you're off duty?"

Michonne shrugs. "I was originally gonna crush you at charades, but then I remembered that you'll most likely be spending all day with Ron Anderson and his dorky smile. So...now I guess I'm going to spend my day alone...wondering what happened to us that made us fall apart."

"You're too obsessed with Wonder Woman. Seriously, I just felt like a side chick to you," Carl jokingly replies. "And you steal my toast."

Michonne makes a face of mock hurt. "I make you feel that way?!"

"Yeah, with all of the shrines and hairbrushes made of teeth that you made for her as gifts, I felt like I didn't matter to you."

"You know I love you! I'll make you a hairbrush out of teeth to prove it!"

"Uh, no thanks. A simple hug and bouquet of flowers will do," Carl says with a goofy grin. "No need to make me human-teeth hairbrushes."

Michonne laughs and finishes off the first half of toast. "You say I make YOU feel like a side chick? How do you think Ron makes me feel?"

Carl sheepishly laughs and rolls his eyes. "Aw, c'mon Michonne."

Michonne smiles teasingly. "Just saying. Its my day off and he's gonna steal you away from me. I'm pissed, ok?"

"Alright, alright, because I feel bad, I'll play a quick round of charades with you."

"Meh. I'm not in the mood for charades. How about I Spy?"

"That's fine with me. You can go first."

"Alright. I spy with my little eye somethiiiiing..." Michonne drawls as she looks around her. "Blue!"

"The sky?"

"No."

"Uh...that dream catcher?"

"No."

"Uh...my plate?"

"Yep. Your turn!"

"I see something-"

"What are you doing?! You have to say it correctly!" Michonne scolds with a smile. "The gods of I Spy will strike you down if you disrespect their rules!"

Carl rolls his eyes. "Ok, fine. I'm sorry, gods of I Spy, for being so disrespectful. Anyway, I spy with my little eye, something...teal."

"Teal? That's a very specific color," Michonne muses. "Is it...that butterfly?"

"Yeah, I didn't think you were gonna get that."

Michonne just smiles. "I AM the queen, am I not?"

Carl laughs and gives her a shove. "Whatever. You're turn, your majesty."

"Ok, I spy with my little eye," Michonne freezes and her face lights up with joy. A wicked smile spreads across her face. "Something that Carl Grimes thinks is cute."

Carl turns around in confusion...and sees Ron walking down the street. His face turns red and he whirls back around to face Michonne. "I never said he was cute."

"You said that his smile was last night," Michonne replies.

Carl groans. "Fine, whatever, his smile is nice to look at. I think you're overanalyzing everything and seeing things that aren't there."

"No, I'm simply observing what's being displayed in front of me and coming to a logical conclusion. Elementary my dear Watson."

"I never said he was cute, Holmes!" Carl hisses at her.

Michonne laughs into her hand. "Carl, you don't have to say ANYTHING. I know you and I can read you. I GET you. You don't have to say a word, I'll already know."

"There's nothing to know," Carl says shaking his head. "You're seeing stuff that isn't there."

Michonne simply clucks her tongue. "I'm never wrong about this kind of stuff Carl. Everyone else including your dad is terrible at sensing it and totally oblivious, but I'm like a fucking blood hound. I can SMELL the lovesick enamored scent wafting off of you."

Carl groans. "There's nothing WAFTING off of me! Get. Out. Of. My. Head."

"You think I enjoy spending time in there? Its a scary place," Michonne teases.

Carl runs a hand over his face in frustration as Ron nears the house. "Michonne!" He whines in the most pathetic tone he can manage, because he's fed up and knows no amount of arguing is going to do anything.

Michonne just laughs at him. "Don't you whine, he's coming here to STEAL you away from me! If anyone gets to bitch and moan it should be me."

Carl just groans again, flicking a leftover piece of crust at her in annoyance. "No, you're teasing me and being a jerk, I get to bitch and moan."

Carl stands up as Ron walks into his driveway. He waves over at him before going to hug Michonne good-bye. "Have fun on your date," she whispers into his ear as he bends down to hug her.

Carl quickly retracts his arms and frowns at her. "Ok, you just lost your hug."

"Aw, really? Im sorry," Michonne says with a teasing smile.

Carl rolls his eyes and walks down the porch stairs to join Ron in his driveway. Ron smiles over at him. "You have no idea how happy I am to see you," he says. Carl notices how tired he looks, dark bags under his eyes. He is about to ask what's wrong when Ron wraps his arms tightly around Carl's shoulders and buries his face into the crook of his neck. Carl hugs him back, looping his arms around the taller boy's neck.

"Dude are you ok?" He asks as he feels warm breath ghost over his neck from Ron's relieved sigh.

"Yeah, but I've got a really long story to tell you later," Ron mutters into his neck. He hopes Carl can't tell that he's practically breathing in his scent. He wonders if its weird that Carl's smell helps him relax and chill out.

"Hey! That hug was meant for me!" Michonne yells from the porch.

Ron feels himself smile and Carl groans. "You don't get any hugs because you're mean!" Carl shouts back at her.

"Be careful, Ron. If you piss him off he withdraws his hugs from you!" Michonne jokingly warns. "Im going through 'Carl Hug Withdrawal' right now and it's the worst thing ever. The detox symptoms are killing me! You guys need to go hug somewhere else, watching someone else get to hug him is the hardest thing ever and I might just snap."

Ron laughs and Carl rolls his eyes. "Don't worry, I won't stop hugging you, I'm not hugging her because she's teasing me and she's mean," Carl jokingly tells the taller boy.

"I am not mean!" Michonne yells.

"Yes you are!"

"I don't know, she seems pretty nice," Ron says with a smile and a shrug.

Carl jokingly gapes at him while Michonne laughs."Nice?! She isn't nice! She's the epitome of evil!" Carl spats.

"Aw, thanks Ron! See Carl? Ron knows where its at," Michonne jeers.

"You stole my toast!"

"She stole your toast? That sucks. We can go to my house and I'll make you some more," Ron offers as he gently unwraps his arms from around his friend's shoulders.

"Aw! He's sweet, puts up with the family, AND can cook. He's a keeper, Carl!" Michonne yells.

Ron positively glows and smiles at her before turning to Carl and jokingly saying, "See? She seems pretty nice."

Carl just smiles and rolls his eyes before sticking his tongue out at Michonne. "See you later, Holmes."

"Elementary my dear Watson," Michonne shouts after them as they walk away. She smiles knowingly when she spots Ron awkwardly grab Carl's wrist and hold it as they walk down the street. "Deny it all you want Carl Grimes, the pheromones are so strong that I'm choking on the scent," she mutters with a smile.  
-

Ron and Carl make their way to the park and climb up that stupid oak tree that Carl's so fond of. If Ron is being 100% honest, he hates climbing up that tree. He mainly dislikes it because he's not a fan of heights, and he gets nervous and tense as he climbs up. He always grips the branch that they sit on as tight as he can, as if afraid that the slightest breeze is going to knock him off. Carl finds it funny, and always teasingly acts like he's going to jump off and shakes the branch that they're sitting on until Ron warns that he's going to throw up. The only good part about climbing up the tree, in Ron's opinion, is that it gives him an excuse to stare at Carl. Since he's afraid of heights and can't look down, he reasons that he needs something else to look at to distract him from paying attention to how high up he is. And Carl's really the only thing worth looking at up in the tree. Or down on the ground for that matter.

Ron also assumes that he likes being up in the tree because when the two of them are up there, its just them. It's like the rest of the world below them doesn't exist anymore and nothing matters besides them and the tree. Its the best feeling ever and he loves how intimate and close it makes everything feel.

"Come on!" Carl calls from above him as he ascends the tree, pulling himself up onto the thick branch that they usually sit on.

"I'm coming," Ron mutters, nervously testing out his footing before pulling himself up after Carl. He lets out a deep sigh as he settles back against the tree. Carl gets that he's not fond of heights and always lets him sit with his back to the tree so that he feels more secure. It sort of works, but watching Carl sit out there on the limb makes him just as anxious.

"You look exhausted," Carl observes aloud, looking Ron over.

Ron just laughs and rubs his eyes. "Yeah, I was up really late last night."

"Ah man, did my family give you nightmares?" Carl jokingly asks.

Ron smiles. "Nah...well maybe I had a few, but they mostly involved your dad making me do a lie detector test."

Carl smiles at him. "The really scary part about that is that I can visualize it. Anyway, you said there was a long story you had to tell me?"

"Oooh yeah. So...I got home last night after you dropped me off. I walked into my kitchen to find my family members gone and the room trashed. And I don't just mean messy when I say trashed, I mean it looked like a fucking tornado blew through the room. The table was flipped over and there was glass and food all over the place and all of my mom's artwork was scattered along the floor. It was wrecked."

Carl stares at him, a look of sympathy on his face. "Holy shit. Your dad?"

"Yeah. I cleaned it up and went to check on everybody. Sam was in his closet, scared but unharmed and my mom was laid up in bed...apparently she told my dad that she thought he was drinking too much and warned him about the dangers of alcohol poisoning and he didn't take it so well."

"Oh man, is your mom ok?"

"Well, she's got a giant bruise on her forehead because when she tried to calm my dad down, he threw her against the wall and kicked her in the head. But yeah, she's been worse. I'm kinda pissed at her because she wants to tell anyone who asks about it that she got the bruise from tripping while getting out of the bath tub."

"She's just scared," Carl reasons softly. "I think she's afraid of what your dad would do if someone got involved. Or she's scared about what they'd do to your dad."

Ron nods. "I know, but I...I think its dumb. And I know it's hypocritical since I don't do anything to get help either but, I hate her for it. She's the other adult in the situation, if anyone is capable of making a change, its her."

"You can get help too," Carl says quietly, already knowing that it was a stupid thing to say. He and Ron have briefly talked about getting help before. It was a short conversation.

"I can't tell anyone. They'll take my dad away or ban him...and what if who I ask for help rejects me? Then what? And what if my dad knew about me trying to get him help. Do you think he'd appreciate that? He sure as hell appreciated my mom trying to help him by warning him about how he could die last night, didn't he?" Ron says sarcastically. He sighs shakily and wearily rubs at his eyes. "Sorry, I didn't mean to get all pissy. I know you're just trying to help. Sorry, man."

"Its no big deal," Carl says, looking at his friend sadly. He wishes there was something he could do to help without getting Dr. Anderson in trouble and losing Ron's trust. "Your mom has a point though."

"With the whole alcohol poisoning thing? Hell yeah. He's gonna drink himself to death in the next three years if he doesn't stop. Part of me doesn't care, you know? But a bigger part of me does. I was so mad at him last night. When he stumbled in the front door, I was ready to kill him. I almost WANTED him to hit me or harass me. And then, he looked at me and told me how much he missed me before giving me a kiss on the forehead and going upstairs. Is it wrong that I'd rather he had hit me instead of kissed me? Am I seriously just insane?" Ron asks, running a hand over his face. He looks frazzled and worn.

"You're not crazy. I get what you're saying. You were pissed, right? And rightfully so. And you were so worked up that you just wanted him to add more fuel to the fire. You wanted more reason to hate him. And then he goes and fucks with it by being affectionate. I think it confuses you because there's like two completely different sides of your dad: The drunken abusive asshole and the smart sweet sober dad. They sorta mixed last night though since he was drunk when he was nice to you...but still, do you get what I'm saying?"

Ron smiles at him, a smile that Michonne would call dorky but it makes Carl's heart start to beat faster. "No, I understand. That's how I sort of felt about it. I ...usually I'd like it if my dad told me that he had missed me and all, but last night I had been seriously confused and conflicted about it because of what he did, which makes me sad. Just sad. Its like Jekyll and Hyde with my dad."

"Jekyll and Hyde?" Carl asks in confusion.

"Yeah, its a famous book. There's this doctor and he makes this...long story short, he has two sides to him. Dr Jekyll is the nice guy and Mr. Hyde is a douche."

Carl nods. "So, Mr. Hyde wrecked your kitchen and Dr. Jekyll came home and told you he missed you."

Ron nods. "Pretty much."

"I'm really sorry about your dad, man. You should've came back to my house and gotten me. I would've helped clean up the kitchen." Carl says, looking at Ron with a sad smile.

"I considered going to your house but I didn't. I knew that If my dad came in and saw you, Rick's kid, in his house and flip his shit again and throttle you, then use your organs to choke me to death."

"That's a pretty picture. Anyway, you could've come back to my house and stayed for awhile. Just to help you relax, I mean, you look pretty tired right now."

"I am. After my dad went to bed, I couldn't sleep. Whenever something stressful happens I can't shut my brain up."

"That's when you should've come back to my place. You could've come and talked to me."

"It was like midnight."

"I don't care. If you need someone, you need someone. Life is never convenient, especially now days. Seriously, next time you need to talk, come get me."

Ron smiles at him, a bizarre but pleasant warm feeling buzzing around in his chest and stomach.. "I'd hug you, but I'm afraid I'll fall if I let go of the branch."

Carl smiles and scoots down the branch until he's right in front of Ron, almost sitting in his lap. He gives him a tight hug, his hat getting knocked off in the process and falling to the ground below them.

Its then, in a tree 23 feet above the ground with Carl Grimes hugging him, that it hits him. It's then that he realizes just how much he trusts the boy hugging him. Ron used to never talk about his dad to other people. Even when Mikey asked about the weird bruises on his arms and when Enid outright asked what the hell was going on, he kept his mouth shut. Only occasionally would he slip up and say something. But for the last few weeks, he's been openly talking about his family troubles with Carl, and it seems normal to him now to discuss some of the things his dad does. He's already told Carl about all three freakouts his dad has had in the last two weeks, and he's mentioned the insane amount of alcohol and what he does to his mom and him. There are still a lot of things Ron hasn't talked about yet, but he has a feeling Carl will be ready to listen once he's ready to talk. Ron starts laughing as he realizes just how much he must trust this kid since he's been open with him about it.

And he also thinks that maybe, just maybe, he might sort of kind of love him. He loves that Carl's not judgmental about anything and that he never blows him off or lets him down. Hell, he just gave Ron permission to come get him whenever he needs him 24/7. He loves that Carl doesn't just HEAR him, he LISTENS to him and puts himself in Ron's shoes to try his best to understand the situation. He loves that Carl is dependable and that he hasn't marked Ron off as a hopeless cause because he doesn't know what to do. And he appreciates how he can be himself because he knows that he won't judge him. He knows that he's free to talk about whatever, and that he's able to freely express himself because he knows that Carl accepts all of him, even the weird twisted bits.

And he loves Carl for being whatever the hell Carl Grimes is. He loves his smile, his laugh, his brilliant sense of humor, his compassion, and how he's a deep thinker. He loves how his family is fucking nuts and he loves that Carl has a quiet loner exterior but that he really does have some soft spots. He may be a little prickly on the outside, but he's sweet on the inside, and Ron loves that about him. He's sort of like a pineapple. But pineapples aren't what automatically come to Ron's mind when he thinks about Carl. Actually, he thinks that Carl is a Rubik's Cube for him to solve. Mostly because a lot of Carl's life before Alexandria is unknown to him (besides the awkward and hilariously embarrassing stories) But Ron is going to be ready to lend an ear when Carl's finally ready to talk.

His heart rate picks up, beating like a fucking drum as Carl pulls away and looks up at him with those amazing blue eyes that seem to see through every guise and straight to the core of what matters. Ron starts laughing breathlessly, because what else are you supposed to do when you basically just admit to yourself that you're in love?

"What's so funny?" Carl asks. Their faces are so close, that Ron can feel Carl's breath tickling his face. 'I could kiss him,' Ron realizes, his heart still beating one million beats per second and his cheeks flushing. He keeps laughing and smiling. 'If I just tilt my head down half an inch, our lips would be touching. I could kiss Carl Grimes.' Carl just smiles at him, and Ron can actually hear his heart pounding in his ears. He notices how pink Carl's cheeks are at the moment, and how he's flushed too. He can vaguely feel his temple throbbing and his tongue swipe across his bottom lip as he just stares at his friend.

He relaxes when Carl sits back on his haunches and slides a few inches away from him. He can't tell if he's disappointed or relieved as his heart rate slows down and his body stops trembling with nerves. He realizes that he's still laughing, only harder now.

"Seriously man, what's so funny?" Carl asks again, still smiling.

"I'm just really fucking grateful that I spotted you in this tree, squirrel boy," Ron says, wiping a few tears of laughter out of his eyes.

Hey everyone, sorry I updated this later than I wanted to. I'm honestly not sure if I like this chapter or not...but feel free to tell me what you thought. Thanks (:


	6. The Nasty, Awkward, Uncomfortable S Word

DISCLAIMER: I don't own The Walking Dead. If I did, it would be very different...

Carl isn't thinking clearly. Like, at all.

His mind is so foggy that he wouldn't be surprised if a lighthouse sprouted out of his brain. Michonne's description of his mind going fuzzy like radio static is actually quite accurate, as his head is currently full of absent buzzing and random snippets of songs he likes and conversations that he can vaguely recall having within the last year. His hands are sweating and shaking as he grasps the branch and his face is heating up like a stove. He never expected his face to be so goddamn close to Ron's after pulling out of the hug. But it is. And he'd be lying if he said he didn't like the proximity that they're in.

He just stares at him, and he stares back. Its like the world's most awkward staring contest, and the loser is forced to acknowledge just how close they are.  
Carl can tell that Ron is in deep thought just by how Ron is looking at him and the way he's chewing up his bottom lip like a piece of gum. Questions as to what Ron's contemplating lazily loop around within the static buzzing in Carl's mind, and a part of him is scared that Ron is uncomfortable with how close they are and he considers moving away, but he's become hypnotized by Ron's eyes and the logical part of his brain seems to have shut off. Speaking of Ron's eyes, Carl's always thought that they're nice, but he's never really stared into them like this and admired the different shades of brown that swirl around in his iris. His eyes remind Carl of the caramel that Carol uses to make her walnut caramel cupcakes. Ron's eyes are also soft and sweet looking, and they remind him a little bit of his mom's... As Carl analyzes Ron's eyes, he picks up a lot of raw emotion hidden underneath them, but he can't tell what emotion it is. He wishes that he could look through Ron's eyes and see back into his head to see what's going on in there and find out what he's thinking about.

Suddenly, Ron's face lights up with a smile that makes Carl's heart beat even faster, and somewhere in the background noise of the static, he wonders if his heart may explode in his chest. The taller boy starts to laugh, still staring at Carl with soft eyes, a new emotion seeming to shine within them.

"What's so funny?" Carl asks as he tries to tune his brain so that there's no more static.

Ron just keeps laughing, a fond smile on his lips. His cheeks are just as flushed as Carl's and Carl can actually HEAR Ron's heart beating, meaning that he's not the only one who's heart is about to implode on itself. His eyes shy away from Carl's momentarily and stare at something else lower on his face. For a second Carl thinks that Ron is staring at his lips, but he quickly dismisses that theory as wishful thinking. 'He's probably looking at the stupid zit on my cheek,' Carl thinks, feeling embarrassed and awkward.

He's too close to Ron to think straight, its like Ron makes him stupid or something because usually this is when Carl would crack a joke about the awkward situation.

But instead his head is full of static, his heart is racing like a cheetah, and his face feels like its on fire because of how much he's blushing. Ron's still laughing and smiling at him with a look that makes Carl feel like he's loved and appreciated, but once again, he waves that off as wishful thinking and assumes that his friend just finds the situation awkward and is laughing to make it more bearable. Carl feels drawn to him anyway, and its honestly like Ron is a magnet or something because Carl feels compelled to either hug him again and bury his face in his chest or...do something really fucking stupid like kiss him. He's definitely close enough to do it, he'd just have to tilt his head upward a little.

It freaks Carl out that part of him wants to kiss the boy in front of him, and it scares him shitless that he's actually sitting there considering doing it. In a burst of clarity, he moves away from Ron to avoid doing something idiotic that could totally destroy the friendship they've built over the last 24 days.

The second he moves back, Ron's eyes lose their glow and his face starts to return to its normal color. But, he continues laughing.

"Seriously man, what's so funny?" Carl asks again, assuming that whatever the hell Ron is laughing at must be really funny since he's STILL laughing after like two minutes.

Ron wipes away the tears of laughter that have started to form in his eyes. That fond smile still on his face. "I'm just really fucking grateful that I spotted you in this tree, squirrel boy," he says.

Carl feels his lips stretch into an impossibly big smile and his heart starts to thump wildly again. "Me too." And Carl knows that he should just leave it at that, a friendly, 'yeah, I'm glad that you found me and we became friends too' but as he figured out earlier, being around Ron makes his IQ drop drastically. So, no, Carl Grimes is not doing the smart thing and shutting up.

"I mean, I was really lost when my family got here. I didn't feel like I fit in here, I honestly still don't think that I do, but now that I've got you its a lot easier. I mean, you're what helped me transition and made Alexandria feel like my home instead of just another camp. Seriously, I have no idea what I'd do if I didn't have you. On the day you spotted me in this dumb tree, my family had basically kicked me out of the house for the day in hopes that I would socialize and make some friends. I thought that there was no chance in hell that I was actually gonna get out there and talk to anyone, much less get close to them. I mean, never tell Tara that I said this, but I think I'm kind of shy. I don't like talking and to be frank, I just don't do people. You know? And at first, I felt a little weird hanging out with you because I'm not good at that sort of thing, but it got easy really fast. I don't know how to explain it, I just feel COMFORTABLE around you and I feel at ease. Its like...maybe its not Alexandria that I've grown attached to and gotten  
to know, but you. Maybe I still am an outsider here, but I'm not an outsider to you, so in a way, I belong to part of Alexandria, namely you."

'Shut up shut up shut up shut up shut up,' Carl thinks, internally groaning and kicking himself. It's like his lips aren't attached to his brain and he just keeps talking.

Ron is practically glowing and smiling like he just found the cure for the zombie virus. It's amazing to hear him awkwardly ramble on about how much he appreciates Ron and how much he means to him and all of that good stuff. And it makes anyone feel good when a shy person who hates people says that they actually like you, despite the fact that you're a human being. The best part of Carl's little speech though, is when he says that he belongs more to Ron than to Alexandria as a whole. Ron's heart basically melts at the thought of Carl being his.

"And you're my best friend. I can be myself and I know that you're there for me. I mean it when I say that I felt like an alien when I first got here, but its like you introduced me into the native cultures and helped me feel at home. If you hadn't come talked to me, I would've spent all day up in the tree, hiding from everyone. Even today I'd probably spend my day sitting up here by myself, still feeling out of place and lonely. But I've got you to sit up here with me and...wow, I'm really sorry, holy shit. I'm just gonna stop talking now before you push me out of the tree. I'm sorry," Carl says, finally getting a grip of his tongue. His face is flushed again and his visibly cringing. He's tempted to smack himself for rambling on like that. 'What the hell was that?' He mentally scolds himself. 'Its like my lips have a mind of their own. Seriously, that was really fucking bad. What the hell is wrong with ne?! Why am I an idiot? Why?'

Ron just sincerely smiles at him, still feeling beyond elated over Carl's little rant. The only part that sort of stung was the whole 'You're my best friend' thing, but its ok, because Ron will take Carl anyway that he can have him as long as he HAS him in some way. He finds it funny that Carl's apologizing, because it didn't upset him in the slightest, it actually made him feel special and appreciated. "No need to apologize. Honestly. It was really nice of you to say all of that meaningful stuff to me. That was seriously one of the nicest rants anyone has ever made about me. I mean...its the only rant about me that someone has said to my face...but still! I'm glad you feel comfortable and relaxed around me, because it would be kinda weird if only I felt that way. And I'm honored that I'm what makes this place awesome to you. To be honest, I'm really glad that you're group came here. I've never really opened up to anyone else before, I don't tell anyone else the personal shit, just the typical 'feel-good' stuff.. I don't think Mik could listen to me talk about the booze or my dad's tantrums or how my mom gets hurt or any of that without starting to treat me weird, almost like I have a handicap ...and Enid could listen without treating me different but we're not close enough...I don't want her to see me like that, you know? I don't wanna be the 'victim' or 'the kid that gets beat by his dad' to her. But I know that I can trust you not to judge me or let what I tell you effect how you view me. You're my best friend too."

Carl smiles at him. Its relieving to hear Ron tell him that his little spiel didn't weird him out. Its also like a straight dosage of dopamine to hear Ron talk about how much he trusts him and that the 'you're my best friend' thing is mutual. It actually causes Carl to laugh a little because a few weeks ago he was kinda nervous that Ron didn't like him nearly as much as he liked Ron, and from the looks of it, Ron's actually pretty fucking attached to him at this point. Although...Carl still has a feeling that he DOES like Ron a bit more than Ron likes him. But its probably for the best, because Carl secretly thinks that Michonne is right, and that he does have lovesick enamor wafting off of him like bad cologne.

"Can we climb down?" Ron's voice yanks him out of his thoughts.

"Hmm?"

"Can we climb down?"

"Why, are you gonna vomit? I haven't even started shaking the branch yet," Carl teases with a smirk as he gives the branch a little bounce.

Ron grips the branch tighter as it shakes, but manages to smile at him "No, I really wanna hug you and I'm not taking any chances by letting go of the branch. Especially with you being a douche and shaking it. So, can we climb down?"

Carl grins and nods. He would never turn down a hug from Ron. They both descend from the tree. The second Carl's feet touch the ground, he's pulled into a tight hug. Carl hugs back as he feels Ron's grip on him tighten. Ron sets his chin atop Carl's head and sighs out happily.

"So, you up for a game of frisball or tic tac toe, squirrel boy?" Ron asks playfully.

"Don't call me that," Carl mutters, resting his head on Ron's chest and closing his eyes.

Ron smiles and gives Carl a squeeze. "Why not? It makes sense: You can climb trees like a squirrel and you're a boy. You're my squirrel boy." He cringes a little at how awkward that sounds.

Carl just laughs. "Watch it, Anderson. I could very well withdraw my hugs from you," he jokingly threatens.

Ron laughs. "Alright, alright! Damn, that got serious fast."

"Yeah, Squirrel Boy doesn't fuck around," Carl mutters with a smile. "But I'm game for some frisball."

Ron grins as they pull away from each other. He spots Carl's hat lying in the grass where it fell from the tree a few feet away. He bends down to pick it up and sets it on Carl's head.

"You almost forgot your hat," he mutters, keeping his hands on the brim.

Carl smiles up at him, placing his hands on top of Ron's, on top of his hat.

Something sparks in his chest when Carl puts his hands a top his own, and Ron once again realizes that he could kiss him. It's then that Ron actually starts to crane his neck down and tilt Carl's hat back, as if going to kiss him. No BSing around, just a kiss. His heart starts hammering again and his hands clutch the brim of Carl's hat even tighter. Self doubt starts to scream at him, demanding him to explain what the hell he thinks he's doing. Ron just ignores the angry voices...until his face is once again right next to Carl's.

Then he gets cold feet and feels his cheeks turn red as Carl just stares at him, sucking on his bottom lip nervously. 'You're a moron,' Ron tells himself. 'A complete and total moron. What the hell am I doing?' Its a dumb question, because Ron can even answer it himself: For the second time in less than an hour, he's trying to kiss Carl Grimes.

As Ron had started to lower his head to his level and move his hat away from his face, Carl had just blankly stared at him, not sure what to think. He originally thought that Ron was just trying to get closer to him so that he could whisper some ludicrous and inappropriate joke to him. But...Ron was getting a little closer than he needed to be to whisper to him. Carl's heart starts racing again and his hands start to shake and loose their hold on Ron's hands. And before he knows it, Ron is just as close to him as he was before.

They just stare at each other again, the staring contest picking up where it left off. Ron feels his breath catch in his throat. He's caught off guard by his own stupidity and he curses his dumb teenage hormones for getting him in this compromising situation...for a second time.

'Crack a joke and play it off, crack a joke and play it off,' he thinks. But he can't think of any good jokes because he's caught up in those fucking blue eyes that are looking up at him.

"You have nice eyes," he blurts out. "They look like the ocean. You know, a clean ocean with no fish feces or oil spills."

It's literally the dumbest thing Ron has said all week, maybe even all month.

'Smoooooth. Such a good thing to say to deflate the tension and awkwardness,' Ron thinks to himself bitterly. He could smack himself. Now after he's said it, ten decently funny jokes that he could've used pop into his head.

Carl's practically over the moon. "M-my eyes?" He stutters. Did Ron Anderson really just compliment his eyes or is he imagining things? Sure, it wasn't exactly well said or romantic (it actually sounded like something in one of Mikey's sonnets) but Carl will take what he can get.

"Yeah. You've got nice eyes," Ron mutters, swallowing nervously. He purposefully bites down on his lip after he's done saying what he feels comfortable saying to avoid anymore cases of 'word vomit'.

Carl beams up at him. "Thanks. You're eyes are nice too."

"Sure, but yours are really amazing. I feel like I'm lost in them when we make eye contact for too long. Really, it looks like someone could go swimming in your eyes," Ron says, the lip-biting proving to be a worthless cure for word vomit. He mentally threatens to duck tape his own mouth shut and/or cut out his tongue after he gets home.

Carl can feel his face light up in happiness and excitement at Ron's words. He wishes he had a snappy joke about Ron 'getting lost in' and 'swimming' in his eyes, but he doesn't and all he can do is smile. "Thanks," he breathes out.

Ron smiles, the huff of air from Carl's sigh brushing by his nose. "You're welcome," he replies. He feels Carl's hands slip off of his own and drop to his sides. He awkwardly stumbles back from the hatted boy, and ends up tripping and falling on his ass. Carl laughs at him as he helps him up.

"Really coordinated, aren't you?" He teases.

Ron rolls his eyes. "Yeah, yeah, I'm-" he cuts himself off as a wicked idea forms in his mind. He gives Carl a cheeky grin before snatching his hat off his head and taking off.

"Hey!" Carl yells with a snort of laughter as he start to run after him.

Ron just laughs as he sprints down the street, Carl right on his tail.  
-

The next two weeks are the most confusing weeks of Carl's life. He has no idea what to think. He doesn't understand his own emotions and it's frustrating and honestly a little nerve wracking. Its not like Carl has ever been an expert at identifying and dealing with icky emotional stuff, usually Michonne is the one that makes him acknowledge it and walks him through dealing with it, but he's actually too scared to tell Michonne what's wrong with him. Mostly because he's afraid that she'll think he's a freak and will hate him. The worst part is that she jokingly teases him about what's wrong on a daily basis, and sometimes he gets nervous that she actually knows. He also wonders if other people can tell. He sometimes gets paranoid and thinks that they can smell the 'pheromones' too.

So what is Carl freaking out over? Actually, Carl is worrying about something that 70% of teenagers worry about at one point or another. The nasty, awkward, uncomfortable, S word:

Sexuality.

Its not something Carl has ever really spent a lot of time thinking about. Ever. Out on the road, its obviously not something that you really contemplate since most of your thoughts consist of 'Do we have enough clean water for the week' or 'Is it worth the risk to try to go into the restaurant to get food? Can we go another night without eating?' Or the occasional 'Ok, does the car have enough gas to get there and are those highways possibly swarmed? Should we take a back road or will the terrain be too rough and pop the tires?'

Needless to say, Carl never had any unsettling thoughts about who he was attracted to because he was preoccupied by threats of starvation, dehydration, gruesome death, and infection. Not once did he ever think he could be gay or bi.

To be honest, Carl hadn't even been entirely sure what it meant to be gay until he met Tara. Then he learned that being gay simply met that you were attracted to people of the same sex. And it didn't bother him at all. Seriously, so what if Tara wanted to be with other women? Its not like it was HURTING anyone or making the world any worse of a place than it already was. It was just two people who loved one another. Besides, its the end of the fucking world, two women kissing, holding hands, having sex, and telling each other 'I love you' was really the least of anybody's worries. But Carl personally thinks that even if it wasn't the end of the world, that it shouldn't matter who loves who. It really wasn't anyone else's business what happened in somebody's bedroom nor was it their right to condone them just for being in love.

But even though Carl now knows what homosexuality is and has absolutely no problem with gay people (actually, he doesn't even think of them as 'gay people' he thinks of them as just 'people'.) it freaks him out a little to think that he could be gay. He doesn't even know WHY it scares him. He's pretty sure that no one would care if he's gay and that him liking another dude is probably pretty low on their list of shit to worry about, if it's even on it at all.

But he's still really uncomfortable at the thought of telling anyone. He's not even SURE that he is gay or anything, he just...well he's never been attracted to anyone. Male or female. ...that is before he and Ron got close. He doesn't like to think that he's necessarily 'in love' with Ron...but he has no fucking idea how else to put it. He's pretty sure its not just some flimsy 'crush' because Carl doesn't just think that Ron's cute or like a few of his personality traits. No, its actually a lot more than that to him. Carl isn't a very trusting person, but in a very short period of time Ron has managed to gain his trust. He's also managed to become one of the few people that Carl can tolerate and actually likes. But the main thing is that Carl thinks that he's genuinely a wonderful person. He's patient with him and nice and understanding. Hell, he even liked the mis-matched group of insane people that Carl calls his family. Ron's home life is terrible yet he manages to pull through and keep moving forward, which is something Carl really respects. Carl also likes how Ron makes him feel: Appreciated, liked, and irreplaceable.

And yeah, he's nice to look at too, but Carl would never say that its a 'crush' because Carl Grimes doesn't get crushes, he falls in love way harder than he should.

Carl hates being in love. He knows that that's not something many other people say, but he does. He hates it. It's not like he hates love in general or like he hates people that are in love (Maggie and Glenn are both very important people in his world) but he doesn't like that he's in love. It makes him feel awkward and cornered because its not something that he can escape. He can run from walkers and fight off people, but his own emotions can dominate him and make him feel weak and stupid. He also hates that he fell in love with his best friend, but really, who else would it be? Carl very rarely opens up and makes himself vulnerable, and when he does it takes time, but Ron managed to scale the walls and make his way into the inside within about a month. Seriously, it's a world record and the kid deserves a prize.

Over the weeks of confusion, Carl doesn't avoid Ron. He would never do that because being around Ron makes him feel better, despite how confused the taller boy makes him feel. Its usually ok until Ron smiles at him or laughs, then that funny trampoline feeling in his stomach kicks in. He also feels achy when Ron grabs him by the wrist (which he's been doing A LOT lately. Its not like Ron grabs him by the wrist to lead him anywhere either. They'll just be sitting on his bed and Ron will grab him by the wrist and hold it, like he's afraid Carl is going to run off) he realized that he aches because he WANTS Ron to slide his hand just a bit further down and lace their fingers together. Sometimes, Carl thinks about yanking his hand up while Ron's gripping his wrist so that they're holding hands, but he never does it because he knows that would freak Ron out and probably end in Ron calling him a fag and storming off.

But to be fair, Carl has noticed that Ron has started invading his personal space a lot lately. Not that Carl's complaining or anything, but Ron has started hugging him more, holding his wrist a lot, and just generally touching him way more than necessary. Like when they listen to music together. They used to sit or lie next to each other on Ron's bed or on the floor with a respectable 6 inches between them, but now Ron always sits or lies so close to him that they're sides touch. Sometimes when they're lying down, he'll lay one of his legs over Carl's knees or customarily grab him by the wrist. When they play frisball Ron doesn't just shove him anymore, he tackles him and pins him down for an excessive amount of time, holding Carl's wrists above his head and straddling his hips while smiling down at him. Once again, not like Carl's complaining. Sometimes Ron will hang off of him, like he'll wrap his arms around his shoulders or come up behind him and rest his chin on his head. Once Carl had been trying to reach a can opener on the top shelf, but due to his height, he hadn't been able to get it. Ron had offered to get it since he was taller. Carl had expected him to step beside him to grab the can opener, but instead he had just reached up over Carl, causing him to rub up against him. It was the first time Carl had been thankful for his short height. It sort of stings though, because all of this is practically Carl's heart to explode while Ron is unaffected because he doesn't like him back.

But even though Carl has admitted to himself that he likes Ron as more than a friend, he's not comfortable talking about it. To anyone. Even the people he usually talks to about weird things that make him uneasy. He can't even fathom sitting down to talk to his dad about how he's feeling or what's going on. Seriously, he'd rather lick peanut butter off of Daryl's foot before talking to his dad about it. He doesn't know how Daryl would react to Carl saying he liked another guy. He doesn't think he'd be mean or cruel or anything, but he's scared it might weird him out. Talking about it to Carol would be even worse than talking to his dad, and even though Michonne claims to know everything about him and teases him about Ron, he's not entirely sure if she's being serious or just joking and if she'd be weirded out or not by the whole thing. And usually Carl would talk to Ron about it, but he can't since Ron is the problem...or maybe he himself is, he doesn't know anymore. He just know that he wants to talk about it though, because he's sick of not understanding himself.

Ron isn't having as hard of a time with it as Carl is. He's fully accepted that he likes Carl, even though Carl is a dude and his best friend. He's actually ok with it for the most part. Ron never considered himself gay, or straight, or pan, or anything really. Ron's thought about it briefly a few times, just because Mikey tends to ramble on about the stuff he sees in his stolen Play Boy magazines and how pretty he thinks Enid is and the wonders of the female body, but Ron has never really been into any of that. But to be unbiased, Ron had actually never been really into anyone before Carl. Sure, he thinks Enid is pretty, but he never has the urge to kiss her or hold her hand. Ron actually doesn't even take Carl's gender into consideration, he just loves Carl. He doesn't know what that makes him, but he doesn't really care. Because he's head over heels in love and probably even more lovesick than Mik at this point.

But...Ron doesn't say anything and just swoons in silence because he's pretty damn sure that the feeling doesn't swing both ways. He's not certain, but he has a funny feeling that Carl likes Enid just as much as Mikey does. He mostly believes this because whenever they talk about her, he voices his concern for her and talks about the stuff he used to do with her outside the walls. Ron's concerned about Enid too at this point, but...he just thinks Carl's not into him. Which sucks, but he'll stick it out because if he can't have him he at least wants to be as close to him as he can be. And as long as Carl has no idea, it can all be normal between them.

But sometimes Ron has the urge to kick himself because he does some really stupid stuff that makes his feelings obvious to anyone with a brain in their head. He doesn't even mean to sometimes, but he gets really close to Carl because being close feels good. He pins him down below him and gets on top of him because, as perverted as it sounds, he likes how Carl looks when he's on his back under him with his hands up over his head. He likes how it looks because it makes Carl look like his. He goes to grab his hand all of the time, but quickly makes a half-assed save and grabs his wrist instead. That can be friendly, right? He wants to kiss him. A lot. Sometimes he absent mindedly stares at his lips and wonders how they feel and taste. He hugs Carl as often as possible and he likes to smell him while his nose is buried in his neck.

Ron won't lie to himself about it, he loves Carl Grimes.

But Ron DOES lie to other people about it. He'd never tell his family about it. It would be humiliating and he doesn't know how they'd feel about him liking another boy. He can't imagine his mom would hate him for it, she's always seemed to be accepting of everyone, but he still doesn't want to take any chances. He doesn't tell his dad shit, so why would he even consider telling him something personal like this? He lies to Mik too. One morning as he was going over to Carl's house, he'd spotted Mikey sitting on the sidewalk writing more sonnets and love letters.

"Hey Mik. Working on some more poems? Have you mentioned how her head is shaped like a perfect cantaloupe yet or how you want to be her hairbrush so that you could run your finger bristle things through her hair?" Ron had teased.

Mikey glared back up at him and replied by saying: "Shut up, man. Why don't you go makeout with your boyfriend?"

Ron had blushed. "What the hell-"

Mikey had laughed and shook his head. "That's where you're going right now aren't you? Carl's house?"

"So what?"

"You like him, dude."

"No, I don't!"

"You're right, you don't like him, you love him."

Ron's face had been too flushed at that point to keep up with the denying lies, so he just walked away. When he had walked by Mikey again two minutes later, this time with Carl in tow, his face had gone aflame again. Mikey had just smirked and mouthed at him to 'make sure to use a condom'. Ron had almost died. Mikey still does stuff like that to him sometimes, and it makes Ron want to kill him.

But Mikey's teasing isn't the most embarrassing part of the whole ordeal. The dreams that cause him to have to get up at 2 AM and change his sheets are by far the most embarrassing part of it, but they aren't anything new, they've been going on since before Ron admitted that he fell love to himself. At least he understands WHY now...

Its also sort of hard to be completely normal around Carl after a night when he got up at midnight to take a cold shower because of the dreams he'd been having about him. Sometimes Mikey used to be in the middle of telling him about the stuff he and Enid had been doing in his dreams, and she'd walk up to them. Mikey would cheerfully greet her and act like he hadn't just been talking about licking her taco. Ron's starting to think he needs to get lessons about how to play it off from him, because there are some days when he's really close to shamefully admitting to what he'd dreamt about the previous night. And the stupidest everyday things push him to admit it. Like the time that Carl had fallen down a few stairs and Ron asked if he was ok. Carl had just smiled and said that he was fine but that his ass was going to be sore. And then there was that time Ron had been eating a popsicle by himself on the porch, when Mikey rode by on his bike and asked him if he was 'practicing'. Ron had flipped him off and gone inside. The next day had been particularly hot and somehow he and Carl both ended up eating Popsicles. Needless to say, it was the most awkward ten minutes of Ron's life, and he'd sat with his legs crossed.

Besides the embarrassing things and his feelings not be reciprocated, being in love isn't bad. Ron likes that its something nice to think about when his dad goes off the deep end. He likes feeling light and splendidly love drunk when Carl smiles at him and when they make psychical contact, no matter how insignificant or light. He loves having something to look forward to every day and he loves that no matter what he's thinking about, Carl's always in the back of his mind like a catchy song that gets stuck in your head. Speaking of songs, its great how all of those songs about being in love are finally relatable and meaningful instead of just songs. Seriously, 'I Wanna Be Yours' by The Arctic Monkeys is almost always on reply in his brain. He also sorta feels for Mik now, because he realizes that it is actually really hard to like someone and them not like you back. But Ron thinks he has it harder, because who he's in love with is his best friend, who isn't even into guys. He feels sort of stupid for accidentally falling in love with him. You aren't supposed to fall for your best friend...  
-

"Morning," Michonne greets Carl as he sits next to her on the porch. It seems to have become their thing to eat breakfast together on the porch in the mornings.

"Morning," Carl replies with a small smile. He looks at her nervously before awkwardly clearing his throat. "Do you love me?" He hates how dumb and needy that sounds, but he needs to really be reassured before he starts this conversation.

Michonne looks shocked. "Of course I do. Your my charade buddy, my toast dealer, my I Spy competition, my run partner of choice, and my friend all in one."

Carl shakily smiles at her. He wants to start talking, but now he's having second thoughts. Maybe he can figure it out on his own...

"Is everything ok?" She asks, looking concerned.

Carl looks at his feet and nervously runs a hand through his hair.

"Carl, look at me. Is everything ok? Is there something you need to tell me?" She asks seriously, setting her spoon down and reaching out across the table to hold his shoulder.

"Could you ever hate me?"

"No! You're not a monster, do you understanding? We've gone through this. You did what you had to and you're-"

"It's not like that this time," Carl interrupts before she launches into a speech. "It's different. I...I have something to tell you, but I don't know what you'll think of me after I tell you."

Michonne looks worried, but keeps holding his shoulder. "I could never hate you! What do you have to tell me?"

Carl sighs before closing his eyes. "Uh... So I think that I'm..."

"You're what? ...Bit?!"

"No! No! I haven't left the walls in a week now. I uh...well I'm thinking that there's a small possibility that I might be..."

Michonne raises an eyebrow and looks at him. She gives his shoulder a squeeze. "You can tell me," she assures him quietly.

"Ok, uh...do you like Tara?"

"Yeah, she's a nice person. She's energetic and bubbly and funny. Maybe a bit too excited sometimes, but she means well. What does my opinion of Tara have to do with anything?"

"Do you like Aaron?"

"I don't really know him that well, but he seems like a skilled survivor and he's a nice guy. Carl, really, what are you getting at?"

Carl shrugs. "Nothing really I guess...I was just wondering what you thought of them..."

Michonne just stares at him in confusion. Then, something in her head clicks and she puts two and two together. "You finally realized that you aren't straight, didn't you?"

"No I...wait, what? How do you know? I didn't even-"

Michonne smiles at him and laughs. "God Carl, you were really scaring me there for a second. I thought that something was really wrong."

"You're not weirded out by me...not being totally straight?"

Michonne shakes her head. "Why would I be? I already knew anyway! Why do you think I was teasing you about Ron? Well, its fun to do it, but I also just wanted to hint to you that I knew. I've known for... Jesus, like three weeks and I've had a feeling about it for months."

Carl gapes. "Three weeks?! I've only known for like one week!"

"Not surprising. I've always known you better than you know yourself. So, you admitted to yourself how you felt a week ago? Finally! But...why were you so scared to tell me?"

Carl shrugs. "I don't know...maybe I thought you would be grossed out by it."

"Grossed out by it? You make it sound like a bloody gash with worms living in it. No, why would I hate you? I'm not and never have been homophobic, and its the apocalypse Carl, I think that everyone has bigger problems than you liking another guy. Seriously, its ok."

Carl visibly relaxes. "Yeah, I kind of assumed that."

"Then why were you so scared to tell me? Wait...I get it."

"I don't," Carl mutters, running a hand over his face. "Please explain me to myself."

"I think the problem for you isn't that who you like is male, I don't even think the problem is related to the person you love. I think you're afraid of being in love. I think you're scared that You'll fall in love with someone and then they'll get ripped apart by the living dead or killed by the evil living. You're scared of loving and losing. You weren't scared of telling me either, you were scared of openly admitting that you're in love, because you're afraid to be in love."

Carl thinks about it and realizes that Michonne is right. He's always afraid of losing her and his dad and Judith and Daryl and everyone else. He's sick of losing people too, and he's sick of grieving and always being sad. He doesn't want to commit to too many people, because the more people you love, the more likely you are to experience heartbreak. And Carl's never loved someone the way he loves Ron, and he bets that it hurts like hell to lose someone that you love like that.

"Why do you understand me better than I understand me?" Carl weakly asks with a grin.

Michonne smiles back at him. "Its a gift." She gets out of her seat and walks over to give Carl a hug. He sighs again and hugs her back.

"You're not really living if you restrict how you want to live because of fear. If you do that, you're surviving not living. To live, you've got to liberate yourself mentally and emotionally. Within reason though," Michonne mutters to him.

Carl smiles. "I get that. I know the difference between living and surviving, because I've done both. This doesn't count though, because he doesn't like me back..."

Michonne lets out what sounds like a squeal. "So you admit that you like him?!"

Carl groans, but doesn't pull out of the hug. "No, I...uh...I was saying...uh...yeah."

Michonne laughs happily and gives him a squeeze. "You're growing up. And you're in love. Ah, I knew my blood hound nose was right, and that those pheromones I was smelling are real and I WASN'T just seeing stuff that wasn't there."

"Whatever," Carl mutters as he pulls out of her arms.

Michonne smiles at him. "Trust me, he does like you."

"Does not."

"Does too."

"Why do you think he does? Because he doesn't, ok? Trust me."

"Trust you? Uh, I was the one who was just right about you being in love and you're fear of it. I think YOU should trust ME. He likes you! I only had to see him with you once to be able to tell that he likes you. He looks at you all the time, and you should've seen the way he glowed when we kept telling him how much you talk about him. Seriously, he looked like a Jack-O-Lantern, and that smile didn't help," she says teasingly, causing Carl to laugh. "He hangs out with you EVERY day. C'mon Carl, every goddamn day. And he hugs you-"

"Hugging doesn't have to be romantic," Carl says pointedly.

"That's true, henceforth the bro-hug and the one-armed hug. But you two don't just bro-hug, ok? You guys like cling onto each other. Seriously, it looks like you two are trying to morph into one person," Michonne says, using both of her hands to illustrate her point. It makes Carl slightly uncomfortable. "And he looks at you in this way that just...it looks love struck. He looks at you the way Glenn looks at Maggie, except more pubescent and awkward and hormonal."

Carl rolls his eyes but smiles. "You really think so? I still don't. I kinda think that he likes Enid."

"How can you tell? She's not even around."

"Because Mikey loves her too and he and Mikey have been being sorta weird with each other lately. Like, Mikey smirks at him and Ron glares back."

Michonne shakes her head. "No, he likes you. I don't know what's going on with him and your other friend, but it's not about Enid."

"He doesn't like me, Michonne."

"Ok, look, if he ever tells you that he likes you, you have to tell me that I know everything and that I'm always right."

"Fine, I will. But don't count on it, because I know that he doesn't like me ," Carl says, crossing his arms over his chest.

"And I know that he does, and I'm Michonne, so I'm always right."

Carl just groans and rolls his eyes. "Ok whatever."

Michonne smirks at him and nudges him with her elbow. "So...I'm guessing that I'm the first person you've come out to."

"Come out of what?"

"Its terminology for saying that I'm the first person that you've told that you're gay."

"Ok, I never said I was gay-"

"You like a guy,ok? You could be bisexual, but for now I'm going to assume that you're gay since you've never shown any interest in girls, even when there were some hitting on you."

"I've never had girls hit on me," Carl says, sounding confused.

Michonne laughs. "There were two girls at the prison around your age, I don't remember their names, but they were ALWAYS flirting with you."

"Oh, I remember them, but I don't recall their names anymore. Sabrina and...Charlotte or something like that. They weren't hitting on me!"

"Holy shit,they both FAWNED over you! Oh my god, for two months the two of them constantly twittered around you and asked you to do stuff with them and tried to hold your hand. What was so funny was how oblivious you were. I think that's why they eventually left you alone."

Carl shrugs. "I thought that they were just annoyingly friendly."

"Yeah, I think that makes you gay."

"Does not."

"Does too! You totally ignored two females that were flirting up a storm with you! Hell, you didn't even THINK that they were flirting with you!"

Carl rolls his eyes at her, but doesn't have a good comeback.

"But in all seriousness, I'm honored that I'm who you trusted enough to tell first," Michonne says with a tiny sweet smile.

"I trust you and I can't even imagine having this conversation with anyone else. Really, on a scale of 1 to 10, how awkward do you think that my dad would've made this conversation?"

"98," Michonne replies, pulling Carl into another hug. "I'm gonna throw you a 'coming out' party," she teases.

Carl groans. "I would kill myself."

"I'm gonna invite everyone and make you a cake. A rainbow cake. And I'll hang rainbow streamers all around the house and there will be a big banner that says 'Carl Came Out of the Closet' across it."

Carl pulls out of the hug and buries his face in his hands.

Michonne just laughs and keeps going. "And it'll be a surprise for your dad. We'll all hide around the house and jump out and yell 'Surprise!' when he walks in the front door."

"This sounds like a surprise party."

"Aha, but here's the twist, after we all jump out, you'll present him with the rainbow cake with rainbow sprinkles that will say 'Your Son is Gay' in icing across the top. And then I'll obnoxiously throw rainbow confetti around and blow a rainbow colored party horn in his face. I'll get Tara, Carol, Glenn, and Eugene to compose and preform a song about loving and accepting your gay child. I'll also have Daryl and Abraham both write some poetry about it and have them read it aloud. Maybe I'll let Maggie make some big acceptance speech. If your dad still doesn't accept you, I'll take him to the back yard and Daryl and I will knock some sense into him. It will be glorious."

"Please don't..." Carl mutters, face still buried in his hands.

"But its no trouble! I'll do all of that, and just because I love you."

"Gee, I feel so loved." Carl mutters. He then looks up at her through his fingers. "But really, I love you."

"I love you too. Don't think that I'd ever hate you," she says, pulling him into yet another hug.

After they pull apart Carl starts to head down the porch steps. "I've got to go. I promised Ron that I would meet up with him by the library."

Michonne smiles. "Alright have fun! While you're gone I'll start making the cake and find some streamers!" She calls after him.

Carl groans, but keeps going down the steps and ignores her.

"Just you wait! It'll be the best rainbow cake ever!" Michonne yells, causing Carl to start sprinting down the street.

"A rainbow cake? Why are you baking Carl a rainbow cake?" Rick asks as he walks out onto the porch to see what Michonne is yelling about.

Michonne just starts to crack up, leaving a very confused Rick.

"Honestly, shouldn't you just make him a vanilla cake or a chocolate cake? It'd be easier. I think that it'll take forever to make a rainbow one. Why are you even makin' him a cake? Are we celebratin' somethin'?"  
-

When Carl arrives at the library, he's greeted with a hug. Him and Ron get into a long conversation about what would happen if humans got an adaptation where they grew wings. They then end up playing a really lame game of would-you-rather and eventually, Ron tries to do one of his favorite things: He goes to steal Carl's hat. It's become a daily thing for Ron to snatch Carl's hat and take off, and since its happened so much, Carl's seen it happen before. So as he reaches for it, Carl smacks his hands away, stands up, and grabs Ron's hat off of his head instead.

"Karma!" Carl yells as he makes a break for it. Ron smiles and takes off after him.

Carl's actually faster than Ron is, and he's decently far ahead...but Ron knows the geography of Alexandria better than Carl, so as he starts to run by the supply house, he takes a short cut by ducking back behind a few houses, before jumping out in front of Carl as he nears the park.

"Holy fuck!" He shouts in surprise, taken aback. "How'd you get-"

"Short cut," Ron says with a smirk before leaping out at him. Carl manages to run past him and get a few feet ahead...before tripping over his own feet and almost falling. He manages to catch his balance, but he slows up just enough for Ron to catch up to him. Ron gives him a little shove so that he falls back, before crouching in front of him.

"I believe that that's my hat."

Carl childishly sticks out his tongue and clutches the red beanie to his chest. "It's mine now."

Ron just smiles and gently pushes Carl onto his back before crawling over him and sitting on his pelvis. "This is such an act of treason that I'm not even sure what to do," he says with mock anger, trying to grab Carl's arms. Its a little hard to since Carl is laughing and squirming around underneath him. It's the best thing Ron has ever witnessed: Carl Grimes giggling and squirming around on the ground with his face all pink from laughing and his hat falling off of his head to reveal messy brown hair and his eyes shining with tears of laughter and a big goofy grin on his face...he looks fucking beautiful.

"Gimme my hat back," he mutters with a smile, finally managing to grab one of Carl's arms.

"N-never," Carl chokes out, still squirming around and laughing.

Ron grins and wrestles around with him to try and grab his other arm. "Gimme my hat back."

"W-why should I? You steal my h-hat all the time, karmas a b-bitch," Carl retorts, a few tears of laughter winding down his cheek.

"A fair point. I'll stop stealing your hat if you give me mine back."

"You're lying, you asshat!"

"Yeah, I am," Ron admits with a grin, grasping Carl's other arm. "But give me mine back."

"O-over my dead body!"

Ron just smiles at him, feeling his heart rate pick up as he watches Carl try to squirm out of his grasp. He feels like he wants to kiss him, but that's nothing he hasn't felt before 'But right now would be perfect: him with his stupid squirmy arms hooked over my neck and his hat is off so that I wouldn't awkwardly bang my forehead against it,' Ron thinks to himself. 'And he's all nice and warm from running and squirming around, so his warm body would be pressing up against mine and I bet he'd run a few of his fingers through my hair, and if Im really lucky he'd hook a a leg around my waist. Wonder what he tastes like...I bet he tastes sort of sweet like strawberries and pineapple. It'd be the best thing ever right now to just bend down and lazily and sloppily kiss him. Maybe nibble on his bottom lip a little. Leave marks on his neck and collarbone.'

Carl just keeps squirming and giggling, unable to calm down, especially with his heart pounding because Ron's pining him down and sitting on his crotch. Ron looks down at him fondly, and the helpless romantic in Carl wants the taller boy to bend down and kiss him. But the realist in Carl laughs at the mere notion. He gazes up at Ron, smiling at how the wild lions mane of blond hair frames his face. Carl's tempted to tell him how nice his hair looks and how he wants to run his fingers through it, but he doesn't because he knows how weird that sounds. As he's lost in his thoughts, Ron snatches Carl's hat off of the ground and waves it in the air like a victory flag, before quickly pinning his friend to the ground again.

"Hey!"

"Looks like we've come to a hat stalemate," Ron drawls.."If you give me back my hat I'll give you back yours."

Carl scrunches his face up, like he's seriously thinking about it. "Hmm...alright, a hat for a hat."

Ron smiles, releasing his hold on Carl's arms so that they can exchange hats. But after the exchange, Ron still doesn't get off of him.

"Get off of me," Carl mutters with a smile, starting to squirm again.

"Why should I?" Ron asks, setting his hands on Carl's shoulders and leaning forward.

Carl shrugs. "Cuz I told you to."

Ron laughs and lowers his lips to rest beside the smaller boy's ear. "Cuz you told me to?" He whispers, burying his nose into his hair. If he cant kiss him, he'll push the friendly privilege as far as he can. Carl's heart starts thumping faster and he stupidly loops his arms around Ron's neck and drags his fingers up through his soft hair. "I like your hair," he mutters dumbly, closing his eyes, dying a little as he feels Ron breathing in his ear.

Ron's heart has started racing too when he felt arms around him and fingers weaving into his hair. "Really?" He whispers, stupidly sliding a few of his fingers across Carl's shoulders and to his collar bone. He can feel the boy under him stiffen when he slides a few fingers a little bit under the neck of his t shirt and over his collar bone. His skin is pleasantly warm.

Carl's heart stops when he feels cold fingers on his skin. He balls a fist in Ron's hair and feels his spine go straight.

Ron's tempted to lick the shell of his ear since his mouth is right next to it, but settles for nuzzling his face into the other boy's neck as his fingers dance across the collarbone and back up to his neck. "You're warm," he mumbles.

"And your fingers are cold," Carl replies, eyes still closed.

Ron laughs a little and nudges his nose into the side of his neck. He feels Carl's hands ball in his hair and his knees pull up to rest against Ron's lower back.

"You have nice skin," he murmurs, closing his own eyes and resting his forehead against Carl's neck. "It's smooth and warm...pale, sorta like the moon."

Carl wants to tease him about how he should try giving Mikey lessons on how to write his poetry, but he's too far gone and really lost and confused at the moment. This is a friend thing, right? Friends can cuddle like this? This IS cuddling, right? He REALLY doesn't understand what's going on. He honestly thinks that Ron likes Enid. Maybe he's just practicing on him? Maybe this is a normal way to show affections to your friends?

"I can feel your heart beating," Ron mutters, his mouth is literally a breath away from the skin of Carl's neck.

"I can hear yours," Carl whispers. It's always a little bit of a strange feeling when Ron climbs on him because it reminds him of the night when the claimer dragged him out of the car, threw him on the ground, got on top of him, and attempted to rape him. But he's always able quickly to move past that because Ron is never aggressive or even rough with him. Nor is he trying to rape him. But its always a little weird for him at first.

"Your tense," Ron observes quietly, fingers moving up to rub little circles on Carl's neck. "Is everything ok? Is this creeping you out? Im not trying to, I'm just-" Ron then realizes that he has no idea what he's doing. Does cuddling like this count as a friendly privilege? 'What am I doing? Seriously,' Ron thinks. He slowly pulls himself back into a sitting position and looks down at Carl.

"You're not creeping me out!" Carl says hurriedly, gently tugging Ron's hair and trying to pull him back down into the crook of his neck. He likes the cuddling. A lot. Even if its just friendly bro-cuddling. (if that's a thing)

Ron smiles at him, sort of relieved that his friend isn't weirded out and happy that he can keep...doing whatever the hell he was doing. He starts to lower himself back down, but he pauses as he looks at Carl, and he gets a spurt of stupid bravery and decides that the friend privilege is shit and that he's not going to play around like this, he's either going to put it all out there or lock it all away. His hands gently clench the neck of Carl's t shirt as his heart starts pounding and he decides to rather awkwardly try to express what he's feeling. C'mon, can he really be as awkward and bad at it as Mikey? He'll just tear his heart out and offer it over to Carl and hope for the best. But...Carl will probably reject him and basically hand the throbbing bloody thing back with an apologetic look and point to the hole in his own chest and tell Ron that he can't accept it because Enid's holding his. It's probably going to suck, but Ron's feeling brave and he thinks it'll be better just to get it all out there, even if it ends in dejection.

Ron opens his mouth to say something along the lines of 'I think I might have accidentally fallen in love with you' when that spur of bravery abandons him and leaves the him feeling kinda scared and helplessly love struck. He looks down at the boy under him and feels the color come to his cheeks. He internally groans and asks himself why he's so bad at making good decisions. He contemplates whether to really go through with it, just in case there's the tiniest chance that Carl likes him back, or to pussy out and play it safe. He knows what he SHOULD do, but its not what he WANTS to do. What he WANTS to do is bend over and close the gap between his and Carl's mouths.

'Fuck it,' Ron thinks with much more certainty than he's actually feeling. He's denied himself this several times now, and he supposes he may as well try. Even if it ends in Carl pushing him off of him and giving him a look of disgust. Carl's a nice guy, he'll probably forgive Ron and let shit go back to normal, right? 'Well, I guess I'm about to see,' Ron thinks, swallowing the lump in his throat and trying to make sure that his heart doesn't actually burst out of his chest because its beating so hard.

Carl had stopped yanking on Ron's hair when he had opened his mouth to say something. He'd watched in slight confusion as Ron started blushing and breathing harder. And then he closed his eyes and started to lower his head, but not back to lie beside Carl's shoulder, it looks like if he keeps going down that their lips are going to make contact. Carl's heart skips a beat and that fuzzy static returns, blurring everything into a happy haze. If Carl didn't know better, he'd think that Ron's about to kiss him...but a voice in the back of his head tells him not to get his hopes up because there have been numerous instances where Ron lowered his head or got so close to him that Carl had been thinking (and hoping) that Ron was going to kiss him, but it never happened. Ron always just ended up laughing awkwardly and pulling away or stumbling away from him like he was a walker. But this time might actually be legit, Ron's eyes are closed and he's getting really close...

"Whoooaa!"

Ron flinches when he hears the voice and Carl's face flushes. They both know stuff doesn't look...right at the moment. Ron's on top of Carl and Carl's got his arms around his shoulders and his hands rooted in his hair and their faces are so close that Ron's intentions are pretty damn clear.

Ron lifts his head and looks over to see the worst person possible standing there. If it were Sam, he could lie about what they'd been doing, and if it were Mik, he could just roll his eyes at the teasing. Even if it were his mom or Rick he could try explaining himself (although if it were Rick he'd probably already be on the ground with a broken nose, black eye, and dislocated shoulder)

But no. Its Eugene.

They all stare at each other in an awkward silence.

Eugene clears his throat, his face looks flushed and uncomfortable. "Uh, I apologize. I suggest finding a more, uh, private place to initiate in those sorts of activities...Uh, I'll just leave you two alone..."

"It's not like that!" Carl yells quickly. "It's really not!"

Ron frantically nods. "Yeah, we were just wrestling." He knows how dumb that sounds.

Eugene looks confused. "Seems like a pretty intimate match."

"It's not like that! I swear!" Carl yells as Eugene walks away from them. He groans and runs a hand over his face. What if Eugene tells his dad what he saw? He's soooo fucked then. He can already just imagine walking in the front door later this evening and his dad waving him over to come 'sit and have a little talk'.

Ron looks down at him apologetically. "Sorry, I didn't-"

"It's ok," Carl says with a sigh, feeling himself smile. "I just hope he doesn't tell my dad. That would be the worst misunderstanding ever."

Ron blanches slightly at the thought of Eugene telling Rick. He can already see Rick storming to his house and demanding for his mom to send him outside to have little talk. He can then envision himself being strangled by him.

"Yeah, I hope he doesn't. That'd be a really awkward misunderstanding." But part of Ron doesn't want it to be a misunderstanding, he wants it to be exactly what it looks like. He wants it to mean something and not just be two friends kinda-sorta cuddling and kinda-sorta looking like they're going to kiss.

"C'mon, let's go back to my place. Aaron brought me a new Beatles CD," Ron says, getting off of his friend and helping him to his feet, deciding not to dwell on it for too long. He holds his wrist as they trek back to his house.  
-

The rest of Carl's day is good and generally not awkward. Yeah, Ron hooks a leg over him while they listen to music and holds his wrist when he walks him home and hugs him before departing, but Carl actually enjoys it when Eugene's not standing there gawking at them.

He half expects stuff to be awkward when he gets home, but its not. Eugene obviously kept his mouth shut about the display that he'd witnessed since no one says anything to him. And Michonne seems to have kept Carl's secret to herself too, or else everyone would be all up in his face. Dinner is actually enjoyable...until Eugene walks up to him and asks if they can talk outside on the porch. It's even worse when his dad raises a suspicious eyebrow, but Carl follows Eugene out onto the porch anyway, shrinking under his dad's gaze.

"Look, I know stuff got weird today, but just so you know, I won't tell anyone. Your secret is safe with me. I will act as a safe with a really strong lock that has a complex code," Eugene says the second the front door closes.

Carl flushes. "But it wasn't ANYTHING! We were wrestling and-"

"And he ended up cuddling with you and kissing you?"

"He never kissed me!," Carl explains desperately. "He was just sorta cuddling my neck with his face. That's all."

Eugene looks at him skeptically. "Cuddling your neck with his face?"

"Yeah." Carl says stubbornly. "He's just my friend! C'mon Eugene!"

"Just your friend? I don't think 'friends' lie on top of each other and cuddle or try to kiss each other. I'd say that he sees you as more than a friend. From what knowledge I've collected about human relationships during my lifetime, when people like someone, they try to get as psychically close to them as possible, which explains the uh...position you were in and I've seen him touch you more than necessary. He also spends an excessive amount of time with you."

Carl just flushes and shakes his head. "We spend time together because we're friends, that's what you do. Besides, he likes someone else and he wasn't trying to kiss me. He gets close to me a lot and it looks like he's going to, but he doesn't. We're just really close to each other and at that weird stage of friendship when you're comfortable doing that sort of stuff."

"I was not aware that there was a stage of friendship were it was considered normal to cuddle and, as the young people's slang says 'drool all over each other'. I think that this 'stage' is something that you're using as an excuse to avoid admitting any feelings out of fear rejection, which is a normal teenage fear. And he most definitely was trying to kiss you, and would've if I'd kept my mouth shut. I sincerely apologize Carl, I believe I acted as what some may call a 'cock block'. I don't know who else you think that Ron likes, because honestly I'm not trying to be crude, but unless you see him shoving his tongue down someone else's throat, all my metaphorical money is on him liking you. And if I'm not mistaken, I think you're captivated by him too."

Carl flushes and groans. The fact that Eugene is talking in about this with an expressionless face and in a serious tone makes this conversation even worse. "Trust me, he likes Enid, not me. And I never said anything about liking him, so you are mistaken."

"Am I really though?" Eugene challenges.

Carl bites his lip and lowers the brim off his hat to cover his face. "No..."

Eugene nods. "That's what I thought. If you're nervous that I'm judging you, I'm not. Well, I am a little, but not because you have what Abraham would call a 'homoerotic boner'. I'm being judgmental because you're totally blind to his affections towards you."

"But there are no affections besides friendly ones. I mean it. My one other friend likes the same girl Ron does, and I think that's why they've been being weird with each other lately. And we talk about her a lot and he used to hang out with her..."

Eugene sets a hand on his shoulder. "I know that as your friend I'm supposed to say something cheesy and sweet that belongs in a rom-com, but I'm going to cut to the chase: Has he ever gotten aroused while you talk about this girl you claim he likes?"

"Uh, no...but we're not really talking about anything that should arouse him when we talk about her," Carl says, showing clear signs of discomfort. Eugene seems oblivious though and keeps going

"Did you ever see her and him together?"

"Yeah?"

"Did he look aroused?"

"No, of course not! It's not like they were making out or groping each other though, they were talking."

Eugene nods. "Fair point, but it still points to him liking you. Just saying. Because he's never been aroused around her and he had a decently big metaphorical tent in his pants today when I interrupted you two."

Carl feels like he's dying of embarrassment. Seriously, he wishes an anvil would just fall from the sky and hit him. "Wh-what? No he didn't, I would've felt it...holy shit I'm actually having this conversation with you and its really awkward..."

"I will admit that it is slightly awkward, but I'm just proving my point. Besides, you may not have noticed his tent because you were too distracted with your own."

Carl just stares up at him, not even sure how to respond to that. "Please stop."

Eugene shrugs. "Alright. Well, glad we had this talk. I wanted to make sure that you knnew that I wasn't going to run my mouth. Its a secret."

Carl sighs. "Yeah, thanks, man. Uh, hey, you're not weirded out by me liking him?"

Eugene shrugs. "Not at all. I saw it coming. Anyway, when he finally does kiss you because I'm not there to be a 'cock block', let me know so that I can tell you that I told you so."

"Not gonna happen, trust me," Carl mutters as him and Eugene go back into the house.

As Carl sits back down at the table, his dad looks at him in interest. "What were you in Eugene talking about?"

Carl's about to roll his eyes and say 'we were discussing how to beat all of the other cartels and enhance our products,' when Eugene passively says, "I've been looking into how the minds of teenagers work and figure out what goes through those hormonal, awkward, overly rebellious minds and makes them make short sighted and idiotic decisions. I figured your son was the perfect test subject to question."

Carl groans as his dad and Daryl start laughing. Eugene just shrugs, not sure why his response was so funny. Carl is just thankful that he didn't tell them what they were REALLY talking about or the room probably wouldn't be as full of laughter and chatter as it is now. It'd probably be awkwardly silent except for Michonne throwing a handful of confetti into the air and blowing a rainbow party horn to break the silence.


	7. Happier Places

DISCLAIMER: Because yes, I totally own The Walking Dead *rolls eyes*

After Ron walks Carl home, he practically floats back to his own house. He's feeling a funny mix of nerves and absolute happiness. He's scared that Eugene will slip up and say something, but he still has no regrets about being that close to Carl. Honestly, any reason to get close to Carl Grimes is a good reason in his book. He's a little pissed at himself for not kissing him when he had the chance, but he realizes that it was probably for the best that he didn't. If he had, Eugene would've gotten the pleasure of watching Carl awkwardly try to reject him without completely crushing him. But still...how great would it have been to kiss him? Just once, how amazing would it be, even if it ends in rejection. Ron quickly comes to the consensus that it would've been freaking awesome...until the whole rejection part.

Ron's dad gets home and falls asleep in his reading chair after blowing through a bottle of wine, Sam decides to play with his match box cars, and his mom declines his help with cleaning out the kitchen, so Ron resorts to his bedroom. He pops his ear buds in and listens to some mushy Elton John love songs, because that's just the sort of mood he's in. He's lost in his head and letting himself think about how it could've gone if Eugene hadn't shown up out of nowhere. Its a pleasant thought, imagining soft lips pressing back against his, even if only for a second. He likes to pretend that Carl actually likes him back and WANTS to kiss him back. He likes to think about kissing him until his lips are nice and kiss swollen and his cheeks are red and his hair I all messed up from his fingers being run through it so many times and his-

CRASH!

Ron jumps in surprise at the loud noise before quickly yanking his ear buds out and running downstairs to check on everything. The sound seems to have come from the kitchen.

"Mom? You ok?" Ron shouts as he runs down the steps. As he runs past the living room, he spots his dad waking up and looking startled by the sudden noise.

"Mom, are you ok?" Ron asks again as he rounds the corner and pokes his head in the kitchen. He involuntarily takes a step back when he's greeted by the sight of broken glass and vodka all over the floor.

His mom is shaking as she hurriedly digs around in the supply closet for a broom to sweep up the glass and some air freshener to mask the staunch smell of alcohol.

"Mom, are you ok?" Ron asks as she starts to sweep up the glass. Her hands are shaking so badly that she keeps losing her grip on the broom handle.

Ron watches her nervously. From past experience he knows that when his mom starts freaking out it means something terrible is about to happen.

"Did the crash wake your dad up?" His mother asks him with a brave face, but her voice quivers and gives away her fear.

Ron nods slowly. "Yeah, he's up."

Jessie pales and sighs shakily.

"Mom, here, let me sweep it up," Ron offers, feeling pity for her as she drops the broom for the seventh time.

Jessie looks at her son severely and shakes her head. "No, don't come in here in bare feet! You'll get glass stuck in your foot. Go upstairs with your brother, ok?"

Ron frowns, not appreciating his mom acting like he's still 10 years old and terrified of his dad and/or the possibility of a freak out. Its not like his dad is gonna flip his shit anyway, right? She just dropped a bottle of vodka on accident.

"Mom, what happened?"

"It was an accident, I dropped the vodka while getting something out of the freezer," she explains quickly, dropping the broom again.

The word 'accident' rings in Ron's head again and he forces a smile, trying to help calm his mom down. "It was an accident," he says quietly as he hears his dad start to limp down the hallway. "Just an accident, mom."

His mom looks him in the eye and mutters. "But that doesn't matter. Your dad won't think it is."

Ron shakes his head. "Mom, its fine. What could he possibly have to be mad about? It was an accident. Even a drunken asshole like my dad-"

"He won't think it is. Not after my alcohol poisoning rant, he won't. He'll think I broke the bottle on purpose to get rid of some of his alcohol. Go upstairs."

"Mom that was almost two weeks ago! He probably doesn't even remember..." Ron trails off, already knowing that he's wrong. His dad has an excellent memory, despite the alcohol abuse. He doesn't forget something important like that. Ever.

Jessie shakes her head and looks sternly at him. "You know your father. Does he hold grudges? Does he just up and forget things?"

Ron just looks at his feet and bites his lip. "Maybe..." He can't think of any positive spin to put on the situation. "Maybe I can keep him out of the kitchen for you."

"No, Ron, please just go upstairs," his mom begs, shaking her head. "It'll be fine, but I'd feel a lot better with you upstairs and out of the way."

"And what, leave you down here alone?" Ron asks angrily, starting to get pissed. He's sick of his mom having to face shit alone. He can't leave her down here alone, trembling like a leaf and clutching the broom like the last fucking pilar of her sanity. What kind of son would that make him? What kind of person would that make him? No way in hell, he's ready to blow it up like the fucking Alamo.

"Ey Rrrron. Come baaack 'eeere," he hears his dad call from the hallway.

Ron gives his mom a look of determination (which makes her almost burst into tears because she knows he's about to do something stupid) before he obediently walks back into the hallway. As much as he likes to be disrespectful towards his old man and piss him off, he knows that it always causes more trouble than its worth and this would be a dumb thing to get the crap beaten out of him over. "What, dad?" He asks, determined to keep him out of the kitchen until his mom is done cleaning up.

"D'ja heeaar 'at sssssound?" He asks.

"No," Ron replies, purposefully leaning against the wall and blocking his dad's path. "What'd you hear?"

"C-crasshhhing sound. Your mommm ok? Sssouned like it c-cccame from the k-kitcheeen," his dad slurrs, actually looking a little worried.

"Yeah, mom's fine," Ron says "You can go back to sleep. Everything's fine."

Pete, even in his drunken haze, looks confused. "You ssssure? Lllloud noise. I'm gonna ch-ch-check on 'er. Might've gotten 'erselffff hurttt."

"Nah, it's fine, dad," Ron says with a bitter snort of laughter. He finds it darkly amusing that his dad is worried about her being hurt since 90% of her injuries are inflicted by him, but it also saddens him because it reminds him that in a messed up distorted way, his dad really does love them and cares about them. The alcohol just makes it hard and confusing.

Pete gently tries to move his son to the side so that he can stumble into the kitchen. "Rrron, move, lemme th-through," he mutters, grasping him by the arms and tugging him back.

Ron digs his heels into the floor and pulls back. The struggle doesn't last very long, as his dad quickly manages to pull him back and stagger past him.

"Dad! Dad!" Ron starts to yell, grabbing at him and trying to yank him back. "Dad! Stop! Dad!"

Pete easily brushes his son off and walks into the kitchen. "Jesssss, wha'...wha' is going onnn? Are yoouuu alrigh'? Jesssss?"

Ron holds his breath as he watches his dad peer into the kitchen. The worried expression on his face quickly fades away and is replaced with one of suspicion. You can almost see the anger bubbling under his skin.

And then the gates of hell open up and everything explodes.

Ron can't even really tell what his dad is yelling, he just hears him start yelling. And yelling. And yelling...  
He can vaguely pick up snippets of what he's shouting. "STUPID FUCKING BITCH! MY FUCKING...MY CHOICES MY CHOICES! ... THINK YOU CAN JUST GET RID OF IT IF YOU CAN'T MAKE ME STOP?! HUH?!...MY BODY, MY HEAD...FUCKING CHOICES! ...VODKA ON THE BOTTOM SHELF...FUCKING ACCIDENT MY ASS!"

He can also hear his mom desperately yelling back at him to 'please stop yelling' and to let her 'explain' and he can faintly hear Sam's closet door creak open upstairs as he locks himself up for the night.

Ron starts running towards the kitchen as he hears his mom's crying get louder and his dad's yelling intensify.

"It was an accident!" She sobs.

"ACCIDENTTT! R-REALLLY! AN ACCIDENT?! RIGHT AFTERRR EVERYTHING YYYYOOOU RRRRAANN YOUR MOUTH A-ABOUTTT?!"

Ron enters the kitchen to see his mom still clutching the broom as she backs up against the counter, tears streaming down her cheeks as she tries to reason with her husband.

Pete just keeps advancing towards her, shouting and screaming like a lunatic. His fists are clenched and his shoulders are drawn back, ready to take a swing. He reaches out and grabs her by the elbow, yanking her towards him and shaking her as he keeps yelling, his voice too loud and slurred to be understood. His mom just starts crying hysterically as he chucks her back against the wall. The sound of his fist hitting against the side of her face is louder than the screaming.

Ron hears another voice join the frenzied screams and cries, but it isnt making pleads or threats, its just yelling hysterically: "Get away from her! Dad, stop! Dad! Stop! Stop! Dad, fucking stop! Stop!"

He quickly recognizes the voice as his own and realizes that he's shaking just as much as his mother is. He keeps yelling as his vision blurrs with what Ron shamefully recognizes as tears. "Dad! Stop! Please, stop it! Dad!"

His dad ignores him, continuing to hit and shake his mother as he yells at her for being a 'stupid bitch' and 'not respecting' him. Ron just keeps screaming at him to stop, but he cant move. Its like his feet are cemented to the floor.

"Leave her alone! Stop! Stop! Dad, what the hell, you bastard! Stop!"

Jessie just cries harder when she hears her son screaming, trying to shout at him to get the fuck upstairs through her sobs and pleads.

"Dad, you're hurting her! STOP! Dad! What the fuck is wrong with you?! Stop! Dad!"

Pete's drunken hazy mind eventually registers his son's horrified screams, and he angrily throws his wife back against the wall again before turning around to face him. "Shhhhhut the f-fuck up!" He spats, all of the screaming making his head ache worse.

Ron just keeps yelling and cursing at him with angry tears running down his face, even as Pete stands up and starts staggering towards him. Its like the logical part of his brain has dozed off and left the crazy, irrational part to run things.

"P-Pete, get the hell away from him! Pete!" Jessie screeches, struggling to pull herself to her feet as her husband approaches their son.

"Shhhut the fuck up!" He yells, grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking him. Ron just starts sobbing uncontrollably as his dad starts to practically throttle him, shaking him so hard that his neck feels like it's going to snap.

"PETE!" Jessie screams hysterically, smacking him across the back of the head as hard as she can as her son's eyes start to roll back into his head. "PETE, LEAVE HIM ALONE, GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM HIM!"

Pete throws Ron down to turn around and smack her off of him. Ron cringes as his back hits off of the tiled floor. His shoulders throb from how much pressure his dad had put on them and his head hurts like hell after being shaken so hard. It honestly feels like his brain has snapped off its stem and is rolling around in his head. He's impossibly dizzy, but he knows it'll just keep coming if he doesn't do something, so he quickly forces himself to sit up and starts to crawl away. He can hear his dad yell something at his mom, but his mind is too fuzzy and the ringing in his ears is too loud. He can hear his mom screech as he feels his dad grab him by the back of the neck and roughly pull him back up to his feet. His dad pins him up against a wall, their faces inches apart. Ron can smell the alcohol coming off of him and he gags and squeezes his eyes shut.

"Wheeeree the hell do youuu think youuuur going?" His dad asks. "Youurrr alwayyys runnin' offff to god kn-knows where. Where are youuuu goin'?"

His dad's drunken rages, as terrifying as they are, are usually rather insightful. His dad flips out about stuff that's secretly upsetting him, like his wife worrying about his health and his fear of her controlling him. It's flattering that Ron's prolonged absences are bugging him, but Ron can't really feel like his presence is missed and that he's very loved at the moment.

"Answeeeeer my question!" His dad shouts, as he grabs a handful of his sons hair and yanks.

Ron stupidly and impulsively decides to spit in his face, causing his dad to yell in anger and surprise and throw him back against the opposite wall. Ron's ears start ringing again and he closes his eyes in pain. He isn't all that surprised when he feels a smack against his face, he HAD just spit in the man's face, but he still loses his balance and falls on his side. He blearily opens his eyes to see his dad standing over him, glaring down at him. Rons shaking too much to do more than squirm around as he tried to scramble to his feet. His mom runs out of the kitchen and hits his dad over the head with the broom so hard that the handle snaps in half on impact. His dad clutches at his head in pain and turns around to face Jessie. Ron manages to scream out, but he can't even tell what he's trying to yell. Jessie backs away and narrows her eyes at her husband, which was odd, because she usually just backs down but one of her children being beaten is something she NEVER lets happen without a fight.

His dad just curses, gives his wife another shove, mutters that he Is 'fucking tired', and turns around to stumble back into the living room. Ron hears him mutter, 'stupid fucking kid' as he goed by, but the insult really doesn't even faze him, he's been called much worse before.

He's still shaking as he starts to stand up. It's not like he's terribly hurt. His head aches a little from being shaken and his back hurts from being thrown around and his face stings from being slapped, but besides that he's ok. He's more scared than he is hurt and he's been beaten worse before. He looks over at his mom, who's trembling. She makes a bleating noise before pulling him into what is possibly the world's tightest hug. Ron feels slightly guilty for not just getting his ass upstairs because he knows that it probably hurt his mom more to watch her son get beaten than to get beaten herself. He hates that he's caused her pain.

"Are you ok? Are you fine? Do you need an ice pack? Do you need stitches?! Do you need painkillers?! Did he break anything?! Let me see your shoulders, he had a death grip on you!" His mom fusses, starting to cry again as she fumbles around with Ron's jacket.

"Mom, I'm fine," Ron insists, feeling his eyes get glassy as he looks at the bruises starting to form on his mom's arms where his dad had been holding her. Her left cheek where she'd been hit a few times is turning purple and swelling. He gently swats her hands away and takes a step back.

"Come on back in the kitchen, you need to put a heating pad on your shoulders. It'll help-"

"I'm fine, mom, you should look at yourself," Ron says. "You're a lot worse off than me. Your lip is bleeding and your cheek is-"

"Ron, stop, I'll be ok. Its been worse, you know that. Nothing some Advil, icing, and make-up can't fix," his mom says with a tiny smile. "But I really want to get a heating pad on-"

Ron starts to back away from her. "I don't need a heating pad. I...I..."  
He just ends up sighing. He doesn't know what he wants, but for some reason he doesn't want any help. He's still pretty upset and he wants his mom to go ice her cheek and take some painkillers before the adrenaline wears off and the pain sets in. He knows he isn't being rational at all but he's just upset and pissed off. He doesn't even know WHO he's mad at. He's obviously mad at his dad, but he's mad at himself too for not being able to stop it. He always feels fucking pathetic and weak after his dad goes on a rampage. He feels like a useless son of a bitch for not being able to do anything. He can't protect his own mom and he can't stand up to his dad. He feels like absolute shit.

"Ron, c'mon," his mom says, grabbing him by the hand and starting to pull him into the kitchen.

Ron quickly wrenches his hand out of her grasp. He bolts up the stairs and into his room before she can say anything to him. He digs a pair of socks out of his dresser and quickly laces up his converse. He just wants to leave. Everytime after his dad has a horrific lash out, Ron leaves to go wallow in hatred, clear his head, and get away from it all. He usually just walks around the neighborhood or hides in the library for a few hours. Once he even spent the night in the library, sleeping slumped against a shelf full of old English literature (Jessie had been very worried about him and had scolded him when he finally came home the next day around noon.)

"Ron?" Jessie asks as she holds an ice pack to her cheek and watches her son start to come back downstairs. "Where are you going?"

"Out," Ron mutters as he tries to brush past her.

Jessie grabs his shoulder firmly and spins him around, causing him to wince in pain. "Sorry," she says apologetically, moving her hand to grab his arm instead. "Where does 'out' imply?"

Ron frowns at her and tries to pull away. "Out, as in in, out of here."

Jessie retracts her hand and lets him go, helplessly feeling that the most she can do is let her son go off on his own for awhile to relax. She's noticed that he seems to handle everything better on his own without her coddling him, which upsets her but she's learned to accept it. "When will you be back?" She asks as he starts to walk away.

"Whenever the wind blows me back this way," he deadpans.

Jessie frowns angrily as he opens the front door to leave. "You better be back here by the time the sun is up or-" she's cut off by the front door slamming.  
-

Ron sprints down the street, running as far from his house as he can go. It's already gotten dark out so he can't see very well and he ends up tripping a few times, but he couldn't care less. He just keeps going until his legs give out and his lungs feel like they might actually be on fire, and he collapses in someone's yard. He just lays face down in the grass for a minute, gasping for breath and listening to the crickets chirp. He doesn't know what to do with himself. He hates himself so much at that moment and feels weak and stupid and worthless and used and drained and just generally like a waste of space.

He groans and rolls over, looking over at the house he's lying a few feet in front of. He somewhat envies how no screams, sobs, or noises of distress are coming from it. Actually, he can hear quiet voices having a normal conversation instead of shouting, laughing instead of crying, and the quiet clatter of utensils brushing off of plates as people eat dinner together instead off crashing and banging as his dad throws shit around. He groans again, this time in jealousy as he looks at the house. Sometimes because he's always exposed to the stuff that happens in his home he starts to think that shit is how it is and forgets what normal functional families are actually like. Being reminded that his home life isn't ideal always hits a sore spot and manages to piss him off and upset him. A part of him loathes the people in the house simply for the fact that they get to enjoy a stress-free dinner together without the fear of someone having a wrathful outburst. He wishes his own home were like that: Congenial, laid back, and actually home-like.

And that's when Ron remembers that he DOES sort of have a place like that. As hectic as Carl's house is, it's an abuse-free zone where Ron always seems to feel welcome, liked, and worth something. He remembers being up in the tree with Carl about a week ago and Carl saying that he could come over whenever he wanted/needed to. Ron thinks he'll take advantage of that offer. He could really use support and Carl always has a way of making him feel better. Its not really being at Carl's house that makes him feel better, its being with Carl that does

'Would Carl mind? It's really late...and for all I know Carl is asleep or busy...will I still have the balls to go inside if Mr. Grimes answers the door?...I could always just go to the library instead...' Ron thinks nervously, the familiar presence of self doubt making itself known.

Ron starts to stand up as a woman from inside the house draws back the blinds and stares at him with a mix of confusion and worry. Ron awkwardly waves at her and starts to jog away before they come outside to question him. He honestly has no answer to: 'Sweetheart, why are you laying in my yard?' He starts headed towards the Grimes residence, growing more and more anxious and self conscious as he gets closer and closer.

'What if I get turned away? That's pretty friggin humiliating and then I have no where...' He thinks nervously, shoving his hands in his pockets and sniffling. 'I mean, Carl wouldn't do that, right? No way, he's not a douche. I mean yeah, its really late so its sort of understandable if he doesn't want to deal with my shit right now...I can just go sleep at the library again...I mean, I probably won't have to, Carl won't turn me away...right?'  
-

Like every evening after dinner, Carl, Rick, and Michonne all stand outside on the porch and say goodbye to everyone as they head home for the night. As Eugene walks by Carl he symbolically zips up his lips, locks them up, and throws away the key. Carl blushes but smiles and nods gratefully. Abraham gives them a weird look, but the second he goes to ask Eugene sternly says, "Don't bother asking, its classified. I am not permitted to tell you. My hands are tied and my lips are locked...figuratively."

The ginger just shrugs, assuming that its something stupid (which it sort of is) before walking home for the night.

As Carol leaves, Carl catches her slipping a tiny, neatly folded piece of paper into Michonne's hand before continuing to walk away, not so much as glancing back at Michonne. Carl watches suspiciously as Daryl also slips a note into Michonne's hand (although his isn't neatly folded like Carol's, its wadded up into a tiny ball) Daryl also just keeps walking, not acknowledging Michonne or saying anything. He watches Michonne swiftly tuck the pieces of paper into her jean pocket. Carl looks over and sees that his dad is totally oblivious to the little note exchange that just happened.

'Mr. Grimes! Mr. Grimes! I caught Michonne, Carol, and Daryl passing notes!' Carl thinks with a smile. He accidentally laughs out loud when he envisions them all sitting in a classroom and Daryl turning around in his desk to glare back at him and hiss, "Snitches get stitches!"

"What's so funny? You laughin' 'bout me, kid? You makin' fun of me?" Daryl asks playfully as he pulls Carl into a side hug. He knocks his knuckles down on the brim of Carl's hat, knocking it down over his eyes.

"Wouldn't dream of it," Carl replies as he fixes his hat.

Daryl smirks. "Good, cuz it ain't your job to tease me, its MY job to tease ya."

Carl laughs and shakes his head. "I think Michonne already takes care of that. So uh...what was that about back there?"

"What?" Daryl asks, playing dumb.

"That note you just gave Michonne?"

"What note?"

Carl groans. He should've known it was stupid to ask, it's not like there had been a chance in hell of Daryl telling him what was actually going on. "The note. I literally just watched you give it to her!"

"Not ringin' any bells, kid."

Carl just sighs, giving up. He has a feeling that he'll find out sooner or later. He gives Daryl a hug and watches him walk away.

"Carl, when you come back inside I need you to watch your sister for a little bit," his dad calls from the doorway.

"She giving you a hard time?" Carl asks teasingly, following his dad back inside.

Rick groans. "She's givin' me gray hairs. She's kept me up all night for the last week. Whenever I start to doze off, she starts bawlin'. I swear she must be tryin' to keep me up. Anyway, I have a feelin' tonight won't be any different, so I'm gonna catch a few Z's on the couch right now before bed so that I get SOME sleep. Do you mind watchin' her?"

Carl shakes his head and takes his sister out of his dad's arms. "Sure, I can watch her."

Rick smiles gratefully before flopping onto the couch and closing his eyes. He really does look utterly exhausted.

Carl heads back out on the porch to find Michonne. Watching Judith is fine and all, but it'll be more fun with Michonne there to tease him and crack awful jokes.

Carl's surprised to find the porch totally devoid of human beings other than himself and Judith. "That's bizarre, she's not in the house and she's not out here..." Carl mutters, looking around the porch and out at the empty street. Michonne doesn't usually go anywhere after dinner, so her sudden disappearance is very weird. "She must've slipped out as everyone was leaving," he mutters. He briefly considers going out and looking for her, but decides against it. Much like his friend Enid, when Michonne wants to disappear, Michonne disappears.

Judith starts to squirm, so Carl takes her back inside and upstairs the nursery. He gives her some stuffed animals to play with (and chew on) while he reads one of the novels that Aaron lent him. Well, sorta kinda not really 'reads'. He's looking at the words on the page, but not really focusing on them or comprehending them. His mind is too preoccupied replaying the day's crucial events, like the horribly awkward conversation with Eugene. Out of everyone in his family, Eugene had to be the one to see...

But the more Carl thinks about it, the luckier he feels. After playing the other scenarios through his head, he realizes that maybe Eugene being the one isn't that bad. If his dad had seen them, he would've thrown Ron off of him and jumped into some really awkward spiel about personal space and Carl would've died of embarrassment. If it had been Carol she would've used what she saw as blackmail against Carl and used it to make him do the dishes and clean up the kitchen every night. If it had been Glenn, Carl's life would be over. As nice of a guy as Glenn is, he can't keep a secret to save his life. Even if he'd managed to make it through dinner without blurting out what he'd seen to someone, he definitely would've gone home this evening and told Maggie through a fit of giggles and a flurry of 'don't tell anybody's. And the next day Maggie would tell Carol, and Carol would tell Daryl, and Daryl would tell Michonne, and Michonne would tell Tara, and Tara would tell Rosita, and Rosita would tell Abraham...by the end of the week everyone would know. And when Carl would angrily confront Glenn about being loose lipped, Glenn would sheepishly shrug and say, "Hey, man, I'm sorry. I told Maggie not to tell anyone."

To which Carl would heatedly reply, "And I told YOU not to tell anyone!"

So yeah, maybe Eugene made it more awkward than it had to be, but at least he didn't freak out, blackmail Carl, or tell anyone (yet).

After analyzing the conversation, Carl starts to think about the event that caused the most awkward conversation in the history of mankind to take place on his front porch in the first place. The event Eugene managed to somehow make even more confusing and awkward. Recalling the little details, like how pleasant Ron's weight had felt on top of him after he'd relaxed and how his breath whistling in his ear tickled, are the best. Carl can't help but smile as he remembers how nice Ron's hair had felt in between his fingers and how close they were.

He dangerously lets himself wonder if Eugene was right earlier when he said that Ron was going to kiss him. It's the best feeling ever to think that the person he's in love with loves him back, but it also nauseates him and makes his heart sink from his chest down to his feet. Its difficult for Carl to comprehend. He desperately WANTS Ron to like him back and naturally craves the human want of being loved romantically, but he's absolutely terrified to think that Ron might like him back. Carl knows that Michonne was right when she said that he's afraid of being in love. He IS afraid of falling in love and then losing that person. He can't even imagine how that must feel and he's afraid of losing someone like that or dying himself and leaving that person to mourn him. Honestly, Carl thinks that Maggie and Glenn are pretty brave to be openly love one another in a world where there's a 50% chance that one of them will be ripped to shreds by the living dead or killed by whack jobs like the Governor.

But maybe the living nightmare that has become reality is easier to face with someone like that in your life. Carl's heard people say that love is what makes life worth living. Nowadays, that phrase is scarily true. Love, whether platonic or romantic, is what keeps everyone going and inspires them to keep fighting. The only problem with love is that being involved with anyone means that Carl has to open the dark recesses of his mind to them. He has a feeling that most of his darker secrets are enough to scare most people away. He's even jokingly dubbed them as People Repellent. He doesn't want to scare Ron away or make Ron feel obliged to 'fix' him. Carl knows he can't be fixed at this point, and doesn't want to drag anyone down with him, which is why he seldom talks about things that still haunt him and upset him. Only Michonne has ever even scratched the surface of his problems.

But once again, that brings Carl to a cross roads. If he's afraid to be honest and let himself freely love, he's not living to his fullest capability. He's not what Michonne would call living, he's what she'd call surviving...

Speaking of Michonne, Carl idly wonders where the hell she is. Her absence is kind of random and out of the blue since she doesn't usually go anywhere in the evenings. Carl remembers the note exchange he saw earlier and wonders if that has anything to do with her disappearance. He decides that it probably does. It would appear that she's conspiring with Daryl and Carol, but Carl doesn't know what their conspiring about or why. Carl laughs, picturing Michonne, Daryl, and Carol all sitting in detention because he ratted them out for passing notes.

KNOCK KNOCK!

Carl jumps and ducks down when he hears the noise, his slight PTSD kicking in as the sound reminds him of gun shots. He starts to quickly crawl over to Judith to grab her when there's another knock. Carl then realizes that someone is knocking on the door, not firing at him.

"I'll be right back, Judy," Carl mutters to his sister before hurrying down the stairs to answer the door before the knocking wakes his dad up. Carl's a little confused as to who it could be. If it were Michonne she could just walk in since the doors unlocked and its her house too...maybe the door IS locked on accident and Michonne can't get in? Its late, the sun has set and its dark out, so if its anyone else it must be pretty important and urgent. Maybe someone went over the walls by themselves and got hurt (although Carl has no idea who'd be stupid enough to go over the walls after dark by themselves). Maybe its Aaron looking for Daryl to accompany him on a run for emergency medical supplies? There's another loud knock on the front door as Carl rushes across the living room. He looks over and is relieved to see his dad still fast asleep on the couch despite the loud knocking.

"Hello?" Carl calls as he swings open the door. Its dark outside and Carl has trouble seeing, but his eyes quickly adjust and he's able to make out a familiar figure trembling in his doorway. Carl squints, trying to see any facial features, and is quickly able to recognize the person standing there as none other than Ron Anderson.

"Hey man, what's up?" Carl asks worriedly, still taking notice to Ron's shaking.

Ron doesn't reply at first and just awkwardly clears his throat and shuffles around a little. "Uh, I know it's late and all...but, is it ok if...if I come in for a little bit? Like I said, I know its late and I know its inconvenient as hell, so I totally understand if you say no," He asks so quietly that Carl has to strain his ears to hear him.

Carl steps out onto the porch with an extremely worried look on his face. "Of course you can come in. I did give you 24/7 access to the Grimes residence, right?"

"Yeah, but...a lot of people say stuff and don't literally mean it. I'm not saying that you lied, of course not, I'm just saying that its still a pain in the ass to deal with and inconvenient and I completely get-" Ron cuts himself off when Carl pulls him into a hug.

"I meant what I said. You're welcome here any time. My home is your home," Carl mutters, holding him tightly as if trying to make him stop shaking.

Ron lets out a relieved sigh and hugs Carl back. He realizes that he REALLY needed a hug as he feels himself relax. He feels like he could start crying again. It's really the best thing ever to hear Carl tell him that he's got a safe haven here with him. He just needs somewhere to run to besides the goddamn library when his house starts to feel more like Auschwitz than home. "Thanks, you really don't know how much this means to me," Ron breathes, resting his head on Carl's shoulder and clutching onto him.

Carl pats his back before pulling away and grabbing at his wrist. He smiles sadly at him. "No problem. Come on inside. We just have to be quiet because my dad is asleep on the sofa."

He's really worried about Ron and anxious about what happened to him. Carl naturally assumes something really terrible must've happened to drive him to come here since he already seems so unsure about being here and worried about being 'Inconvenient' (which is ridiculous, because Ron never has been and never will be an inconvenience to Carl.) The way he's trembling is also disconcerting. Its too dark outside for Carl to really see his face, so he can't tell whether or not he's got a black eye or broken nose. Its already decided in his head that if he needs a bone set or stitches that he'll take Ron to Maggie to be fixed up. Since her dad was a vet, Maggie has basic medical skills. Carl reaches out and grabs his friend by the wrist and starts to lead him in the house so that he can take care of him.

"Come on," he whispers in the softest voice Ron has ever heard. As Carl backs into the doorway some of the light from inside the house shines out, seeming to make a halo over Carl's head. Ron can't help but smile and find it fitting.

Carl gently tugs Ron into the house and shuts the door behind him. He's relieved to see no major bruises or black eyes or dislocated shoulders when he looks at Ron. However, the skin under his eyes is red and swollen like he's been crying and his one cheek is painfully red and looks like it hurts pretty bad. He's still shaking and a little skittish, avoiding eye contact and fidgeting.

"Are you ok?" Carl asks worriedly.

Ron sucks in a deep breath and shrugs, causing him to wince as the simple action causes pain to shoot up his shoulders and lower neck.

Carl notices his pained expression and gives his wrist a squeeze. "Hey, what's up?"

Ron licks his lips, still feeling riled up and scared. "Uh...m-my dad freaked out a-and-" Ron doesn't know how to explain. "He started hitting m-my mom...I was there...uh," Ron cuts himself off and clutches his one shoulder and winces, sourly wishing once again that he had taken his mom's advice and put the heating pad on his shoulders. His head is starting to really kill now too. Its like all of a sudden he's realizing just how badly everything is hurting. His shoulders still feel like someone's got them in a vice grip and ache.

Carl looks at him in worry as he watches his friend grip his shoulder and scrunch up his face in pain. "Hey, are you ok?"

"Do you have any ibuprofen?" Ron asks, wincing and rubbing his shoulder.

Carl quickly nods and leads Ron back into the kitchen before beginning to dig around in the cupboard for some painkillers. "I know my dad has some in here..." He mutters, standing on his tiptoes and digging around. Ron leans against the counter and watches Carl search. After a few seconds, Carl turns around and tosses him a tiny bottle full of little yellow pills. Ron honestly has no idea what they are, but he trusts Carl not to drug him, so he swallows two.

"Do you want an ice pack or something? Your cheek is starting to bruise pretty bad."

"Yeah, thanks," Ron says, screwing the cap back on the bottle of pills and walking over to place it back in the cupboard. The pain from raising his arms up is enough to almost make him cry.

Carl hands him a bag of frozen vegetables wrapped up in a dish cloth to serve as a makeshift ice pack. "C'mon upstairs. I've got to watch Judy and we can talk up there, I mean, if you feel like talking obviously," Carl says gently. He really wants to know what happened, but if Ron doesn't want to talk, Carl won't force him. Carl completely understands having things that you don't want to talk about because they upset you.

Ron smiles a little and follows Carl up the stairs. His face still stings from being hit but the ice pack really helps. And so does Carl holding his wrist and telling him that he only has to talk if he wants to. He loves how comfortable and easy going Carl tries to make things.

Carl leads him into what looks like a nursery. Judith is sitting on the floor, chewing on a stuffed Chihuahua like its an enchilada. She makes a burbling sound when she spots Carl and starts to crawl over to him. Ron smiles down at her as she looks back up at him, almost curiously. She then looks over at her brother, as if asking, 'who the hell is this guy?'

"You've met Judy before, right?" Carl asks as he picks her up.

Ron nods. "Briefly that night I ate dinner over here. Nice to see you again Judith."

Judith just ignores him and sticks her fist in her mouth and starts sucking on it.

Ron smiles sweetly at her. "I remember when Sam was this tiny."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. I remember when my parents first brought him home. He was just a tiny bald thing wrapped up in a green blanket. I remember being really nervous when my mom handed him to me. I was terrified that I was gonna drop him or break him or something because, damn, he was so small and fragile. And I remember when he was about your sister's age he'd suckle on my shirt everytime that I held him. It always annoyed the piss out of me."

Carl laughs. "She doesn't suckle on me, but she chews the hell out of all of her toys. She bites sometimes too. We're trying to get her to stop, because she bites Abraham every time that he tries to hold her."

Ron laughs. "Aw man, really? She doesn't look like much of a biter."

"She is. You need a muzzle, don't you Judy?" Carl coos.

Ron smiles and shakes his head. "She's too cute to be vicious."

Carl laughs. "Some cute things are vicious. I mean, according to Mikey, Enid is beautiful and vicious at the same time."

Ron laughs and nearly says that he thinks Carl can take care of himself and that he's cute at the same time too, but he catches it before it slips out.

Carl sits down on the floor with Judith in his lap and Ron sits down next to him.

"So...how bad are you hurting?" Carl asks, looking him over.

"It could be worse. Its just my shoulders, back, head, and cheek. I think I just need to wait for the painkiller to kick in," Ron replies, shrugging and wincing again.

Carl looks at him sadly. He wishes he knew what Ron's dad did to him so that he could have some clue of HOW it hurts and if he can do anything else to help ease the pain. He also really wishes there were more he could do. It breaks his heart when Ron mentions his dad beating him or his mom, mostly because Carl can't even imagine being afraid of his dad or his dad beating the crap out of him. It just doesn't seem fair. Your parents are supposed to love you, care for you, and be there for you. Not terrify you and cause you harm. It also always breaks his heart when Ron seems to think that he DESERVED to be hit or degraded or thinks that he's unworthy of being treated any better. When he says shit like that, Carl goes full out Carol with a supportive speech about how he IS worthy of loving parents and that there's no way in hell he deserves any of the pain, physical or emotional, that he's put through. Because to Carl, Ron is worth a whole lot more than what he seems to think he's worth.

He wishes he could tell him that he deserves everything.

Ron is quiet for a minute before noticing the extremely concerned look on Carl's face. Ron feels bad for stressing him out, so he quickly begins to explain himself by saying, "My mom dropped a bottle of vodka while cleaning out the kitchen. It was an accident."

Carl looks at him and nods, indicating that he's listening.

"My dad gets paranoid when he's drunk, and of course thought that my mom broke the bottle on purpose as a way of getting rid of more of his alcohol. He thought this all because of the alcohol poisoning spiel my mom went off on a week ago. So, he started to hit her and I...I was right there so I just started yelling. I didn't even really seem to have control of my brain, I just started screaming and yelling. And...my mom was crying and screaming and my dad was yelling at the top of his lungs...it was fucking chaos at its finest. So, my dad eventually realized that I was screaming and he turned on me...I still didn't shut up. I should have shut up. I really should've. But I didn't. Of course not, because that would be logical, right? So he started yelling at me to shut up and he shook me really hard until my mom smacked him. I tried crawling away, but he grabbed me by the back of the neck, pinned me up against the wall, and demanded to know where I thought I was going. I did the stupidest thing ever: I spit in his face. So he threw me and hit me and I fell. Really, my mom saved me, she bashed my dad over the head with her broom and he just sort of deflated and went back to sleep in the family room. And that was the end of it. I feel like shit."

Carl looks at him sadly. He can't help feeling angry at Pete for doing this to his own wife and kid, but Carl always feels a little angry when Ron tells him about this kind of stuff. But he's always more sad than angry and the way Ron seems to curl into himself as he talks is hard to watch. He sets a hand on Ron's shoulder. "That's really rough, man. I'm glad you came over here."

Ron sighs, feeling his eyes get wet. "I still hate myself. I tried to stop him, but I couldn't. I tried to do something, but I didn't. I just screamed like a scared little kid and almost got beaten up."

"You shouldn't hate yourself. You did all you could. Really, even if you attacked him, he'd just wipe you out. He's got a good foot and seventy pounds on you," Carl says gently. "It wouldn't have done anything but get you hurt."

"Whatever, I still feel like I failed my mom. I can't protect her, I can't even protect myself from him. I'm just really sick of it all. Everytime I think its getting better it gets worse. My dad was nearly sober for the last four days. He even brought my mom a bouquet of flowers the other day... I really thought it might be getting better. Stupid wishful thinking, I guess...i hate it. I hate him, I hate my house, I hate myself."

"I don't hate you," Carl says quietly. "And you shouldn't either."

Ron sighs but smiles. "Thanks."

Carl scoots closer. "Im not gonna lie and say that everything is totally ok, but for the time being, some stuff is ok. Your mom is ok and so are you. You did all that you could. Hell, everytime something like this happens you do everything you can possibly do. You aren't a failure, don't even say that. You try and try and try...and I seriously respect that and I wish I was more like that because I'm not as persistent as you. You...you sorta inspire me. There are some days when I get dragged back into the black and I try to think like you, because you manage to balance it out. You know how to acknowledge that stuff isn't right or good, but you live with it without letting it totally consume you."

Ron smiles and holds the makeshift ice pack to his face. He's totally blown away by the mere notion of Carl being motivated by him. "That's really nice of you. I'm honored to be a motivation for you, but sometimes I do let it consume me. I think everyone gets lost in the dark and does from time to time."

Carl nods in agreement. "That's true...but you always seem to handle this shit so well. I mean it, you're strong."

Ron just smiles at him. "I'm really not all that stable. I get by but it's not like I manage to change anything."

Carl shakes his head. "You stick it out though. And the fact that you still have the determination to WANT to change it is honorable. The situation would've worn out most people and left them feeling pretty damn apathetic, but you still feel like you can do something."

Ron smiles sadly. "Or I could just be stupid."

Carl looks over at him with a look of sadness and sympathy. He gets what its like to want to change something or to feel like a total wreck loose failure and he knows its impossible to talk someone out of feeling that way. He sets Judith down beside him, causing her to make a little unhappy noise. He gently grasps Ron by the arm and pulls him close and lies him down across his lap. Ron looks up at him in slight confusion, but he doesn't complain. He feels Carl gently run a few fingers under his hat and push it off of his head so that he can thread his fingers through his hair. Ron smiles at him before closing his eyes, remembering the days earlier events when Carl had run his fingers up through his hair. It still feels nice and makes his heart beat faster. Carl wraps his arms around Ron's upper arms and hugs him close. Ron just keeps his eyes closed and smiles. It feels nice to be held, its comforting and makes him feel worthy and needed.

...and loved.

Judith makes another squawking noise of indignation, obviously not happy with her brother putting her down to hold Ron instead.

"Do you think there's the slightest chance that you might have a concussion?" Carl asks quietly. "Because if you might I can have Maggie check."

"Nah, don't think so," Ron mutters. "My vision is fine and I'm not nauseous."

Carl nods and sighs. "I'm sorry."

"For what? What happened? It's not your fault. It's mine for getting upset. I mean, this kind of shit happens to me so often that you'd think I'd get used to it. But I'm apparently terrible at adapting because I still get way too upset and-"

"If watching your mom getting beat ever DOES become easy, something is seriously wrong. I don't think it's one of those things that gets easier."

"I don't think so either but still, you'd think I'd have a solution by now."

"Stop blaming yourself," Carl mutters. "Seriously, none of this is your fault. We don't get to choose what we're born into."

Ron smiles. "I guess you're right. You're the best. You know that, right?"

Carl smiles humbly and shrugs. "I wouldn't say I'm the best-"

"You are. You're awesome and you make me feel better. You're like a relatable therapist...but with no doctorate. And you're really sweet and patient and sympathetic and-," Ron could list the traits that Carl has that he loves for hours, but he knows that 'and that's why I love you' is what really should be added on to the end of the list. Ron doesn't dare say any such thing though. This evening has been horrible enough, he doesn't need to get beaten up by his dad, feel like a total failure, AND get rejected by the love of his life all in one night. So he just keeps contentedly rambling on and on.

Carl smiles and feels his face heat up as Ron keeps listing traits of his that he admires. Carl honestly has a difficult time seeing said admirable traits in himself, but obviously Ron sees them.

Judith makes a snuffling noise before going to grab Ron's hat off the ground and starting to chew on it.

"Hey Judy, that's not food!" Carl scolds, quickly leaning over to snatch it off of her. Ron falls off of his lap with a thud and a cringe in the process.

"Sorry," Carl mutters as he awkwardly hands him the slobbery beanie. "We can wash it if you want?"

Ron laughs sheepishly as he sits up. "No, its cool. I bet baby slobber is the newest conditioner rave."

Carl laughs.."That's pretty damn gross. Im sorry, like I said, she chews and bites."

"Its no big deal," Ron says, waving it off. He takes the hat out of Carl's hands and sets it across his legs. "So...its really quiet around here," he muses. Last time Ron had been over for dinner, the house had been noisy (and just as entertaining) as a circus. The house is currently silent besides them talking quietly to one another, Judith sucking on her stuffed giraffe's ear, and Rick's soft snoring from downstairs.

"Yeah. I don't know where Michonne is and like I said earlier, my dad's asleep on the sofa downstairs."

"Michonne's MIA?"

"Yeah. Did you see her on your way over here?"

Ron shakes his head. "Sorry."

Carl shrugs. "Nothing to be sorry for, I just have no idea where she is. The whole thing is a little weird. I saw Carol and Daryl both slip her notes after dinner, so that probably has something to do with it."

"Yeah, probably. Do you know what the notes said?"

"No idea."

"Maybe they're forming a secret underground government," Ron teases, starting to feel more like himself.

Carl laughs. "Secret underground government? I was thinking they were making a brotherhood of assassins."  
-

Ron and Carl end up laying side by side on the floor, talking about everything and nothing. Judith curls up between the two of them and falls asleep. Ron feels a lot better, as he stares up at the ceiling and talks about whether or not it would be considered cannibalism if a fish ate sushi. He loves this nonsense, he loves how ridiculous and stupid the two of them are. He loves how Carl seems to know how to make him feel better and help him heal.

"What would be the grossest cologne scent ever?"

"Definitely sweat and pepperoni. Or maybe spray cheese and paint."

"Spray cheese? That stuff is fucking nasty."

"I know, right? Don't tell Michonne that though, she eats the stuff by the bottle," Carl says with a smirk.

"She likes that shit? EW," Ron mutters, making a face.

Carl laughs. He looks over and sees his baby sister is fast asleep. He gently picks her up and carries over to her crib. As he tucks her in, Ron stands up and looks in the crib with a goofy smile on his face.

"She's really cute," he mutters, watching Judith sleep soundly.

Carl nods. "Yeah, its a good thing she's cute because she can be a pain in the ass."

Ron chuckles quietly before looking over at the clock hung on the wall. "Its almost midnight. I should get going," he mutters.

Carl gazes at the clock for a moment. "You can stay here for the night," he offers quietly. "I mean, its really late, you might as well stay here. I'll walk you home in the morning."

Ron smiles. "I guess I could stay here. You sure your dad wouldn't mind?"

Carl shakes his head. "No, he probably won't even notice."

"Ok then, I'll stay here," Ron agrees quietly.

There's a moment of silence between them as they both watch Judith sleep.

"Are you tired?" Carl asks.

Ron shakes his head. "No. Are you?"

"No. There's actually something I really wanna show you. I just haven't gotten the chance yet."

"What?"

"Follow me," Carl whispers, as he starts to creep quietly out of the nursery. Ron follows him across the hallway and into what seems to be Michonne's bedroom. Carl slowly cracks open the window by the bed and steps out onto the roof. He motions for Ron to follow. Ron climbs through the window and follows his friend out onto the roof. He spots Carl carefully walking across the side of the roof and climbing up onto a small ledge. Ron, with his hatred of heights, nervously crawls across the side of the roof before awkwardly clambering up on the ledge and sitting beside Carl. Its become chilly outside, and Ron finds himself pulling his jacket closer to his body. Being up on the roof is even more unnerving than being in the tree because they're higher up and if he'd happen to fall, instead of falling onto grass he'd fall onto the cement sidewalk. Splat.

"What'd you wanna show me?" Ron asks, holding onto the ledge for dear life and looking down anxiously.

Carl laughs a little and points at the sky. "This."

Ron looks up to see the night sky full of bright stars. They look astounding, glowing like thousands of little white Christmas lights in the sky. They almost seem to sparkle and burn like mini fireworks. Ron's always thought that the sky was beautiful, but he's never really gazed up at it and admired it like this. He finds himself breathless as he looks up at the stars.

"I'm always blown away by how beautiful the night sky is," Carl mutters as he gazes up at the sky. "The stars remind me of little candles burning way far away, so far away that you can just barely see the flame. Whenever I'm really upset, I like to look at the stars because they remind me that there's more put there...that I'm part of something way bigger than myself. It helps take me to a happy place...well a HAPPIER place, but still."

Ron smiles. "No I get it, happier places are awesome."

Carl sighs happily. It's a nice change to feel understood for once. He's so used to his dad making blind guesses as to what's wrong or what he actually means. "I wish I could knock you off your feet by pointing out a bunch of constellations, but I don't know any. Alls I know is that that's Polaris," Carl says as he points to the North star.

Ron chuckles and shakes his head. "That's more than I know."

Carl smiles. "My dad knows a lot of the constellations and he used to point them out to me. He'd point to a random bunch of stars and say that it was Orion, but I didn't see a bear, I just saw a shit load of twinkling stars scattered across the horizon. But I sort of like the stars better that way. I think you admire them more when you view them as individually scattered about instead of part of some big eccentric picture. You know what I mean?"

Ron nods and laughs. "It was a funny way to word it, but yeah, I get you."

There's a moment of silence between them before Carl quietly says, "I've been meaning to show you this for awhile now but I never see you after dark. Looking at the stars takes me to my happier place. Maybe it can take you there too. The main reason I love the stars so much is that...even though I'm not much of a believer at all, I like to think..."

"To think what?" Ron prompts curiously.

Carl shrugs. "...never mind," he mutters softly. "It's sort of stupid."

Ron looks over at him and his heart nearly stops. As beautiful as the stars are, he's totally transfixed with Carl. The starlight seems to make his face positively glow and catches in his eyes, which seem to be watery. He has the sweetest nostalgic smile on his face and a clouded over 'lost in my head' kind of expression in his eyes that he gets sometimes. He looks like the most kissable person on the planet.

"It can't be stupid," Ron insists quietly. "Yeah, my baby spit conditioner joke was stupid and so was the poorly timed chicken joke I made the other day, but this can't be."

Carl laughs a little and smiles, still looking up at the sky. "Ok, but you can't laugh or I'll have to push you off the roof."

"I won't laugh, I promise."

Carl sighs, not taking his eyes off the stars. 'He's gonna think I'm a total freak,' Carl thinks. 'He's going to realize what a messed up weirdo I am.'

"Even though I'm not a believer, I like to look up at the sky and think...and think that my mom is up there among the stars and moon, looking back down at me. I can't see her when I look at the night sky, but I sorta feel her...sometimes I can smell her or if I really focus on the stars I can hear her... I told you it's stupid, ok?"

Ron stares at him in amazement and knows that he was just given a glimpse inside Carl's head. Ron still doesn't know what exactly happened to his mom, but he's known since having dinner with Carl that she's dead. Carl is still looking at the sky, but his cheeks are red now and he looks a little uncomfortable. It's really the first time Carl's made himself so vulnerable; sharing his 'happier' place, welcoming Ron to make it his own too, and revealing how it helps him mourn his mom. Ron honestly feels honored to have been trusted enough. Carl doesn't seem like the most trusting kid, and Ron has a feeling no one else knows about this 'happier' place but them. Its their place.

Carl thickly swallows and avoids eye contact, clearly feeling ashamed. He feels a little stupid for making himself vulnerable and afraid that Ron won't understand.

Ron watches his friend fidget and look ashamed. He feels bad for him, his mom is obviously a very hard topic for him to open up about. Ron manages to sum up the courage to scoot his hand out further so that his finger tips brush Carl's.

"It isn't stupid at all," Ron says gently, "It's actually really sweet. How the hell is it stupid?"

Carl smiles bashfully, still looking up at the sky, and shrugs. "I don't know...because she's dead and I still try to talk to her..." He's honestly a little relieved that Ron doesn't think he's fucking mental or stupid.

Ron shakes his head and scoots his hand a little bit closer so that he can lay his fingers over Carl's. "Trust me, its not stupid."

"Thanks..." Carl sighs out. He feels butterflies in his stomach when he notices Ron's fingers laid across his own.

Ron slowly shifts his fingers down and laces their fingers up. He nervously holds his breath as Carl looks down at their conjoined hands with a look of mild shock on his face. Ron's heart starts to race again as Carl slowly turns his head back up to stare at him.

"Sorry, I was j-just trying to comfort y-"

Ron stops his nervous rambling as Carl starts to smile. He watches the shorter boy's cheeks flush and hears him let out a small breathy laugh. Carl gives his hand a squeeze, and Ron squeezes back.

Ron smiles at him somberly. This is a major display of trust on Carl's part, and Ron really does feel honored. He gives Carl's hand another squeeze when he hears him sniffle a few times. They sit there staring at the stars with their hands intertwined. One of them healing after being beaten by his father, the other healing after his mother's death. Ron knows Carl must be just as damaged as he is, there's no way in hell that he lived out there for years and isn't. But Ron's ok with it, and he's there for him. His heart aches for both Carl and himself, but he can't help but smile. The night sky now holds a much more prevalent meaning, but its not Ron's happier place. The library isn't his happier place any more either.

He realizes that his happier place is with the boy who's hand is in his own.

Ron smiles as Carl gives his hand Another squeeze, and he squeezes back.

"You say I'm the best, I think you're the best," Carl mutters.

Ron smiles. "No, you're the best," he replies playfully.

Carl laughs quietly and kicks Ron's foot with his own and gazes up at the stars. "Thanks..." He whispers.

"For what?"

"Being the wonderful creature that you are," Carl replies with a smile as he closes his eyes and inhales the midnight air and hints of his mom's perfume.

Ron smiles at him. "You're welcome. Thank you too for being the delightful being that you are."

Carl smiles and gives his hand a squeeze. "You don't deserve a happier place, you deserve a HAPPY place."

Ron grins as he rubs circles on Carl's wrist with his long fingers. "I don't know, my happier place is the best." He looks over at Carl and is tempted to steal a kiss, but restrains himself and settles for giving Carl's hand another squeeze.

Carl squeezes back and opens his eyes to smile over at him. They stay sitting their on the roof, holding hands and looking at the stars. Neither lets go of the others hand. When you find your happy spot, you don't let it go


	8. Shadows and Scars

Thank you all for leaving me such wonderful comments and continuing to read this (: It means a lot to me and your support is greatly appreciated.

Christa: I hope you feel better soon ): Hang in there  
-

DISCLAIMER: I don't own The Walking Dead, so none of the characters or original plot line used are mine

"That looks like it could be a lopsided jellyfish," Ron mutters, pointing to a group of stars off to the right with his free hand.

"I don't see it," Carl says, squinting at the bunch of stars Ron claims resemble a jellyfish and trying to correctly connect the stars to see it.

They've been sitting out on the roof for almost an hour now. Since neither of them knows any constellations, they've decided to make some of their own. They've already made 'Dog with Eagle Wings' and 'Lumpy Watermelon Holding an Umbrella' and 'Ninja Wearing a Fedora'. It's complete and utter nonsense, but it's extremely entertaining to see what crazy and peculiar things they can make by connecting the stars like a big messed up game of Connect the Dots in the sky. They're still holding hands, occasionally giving the others hand an affectionate squeeze. Neither has any desire to let go. Ron quickly decides that holding Carl's hand is much better than holding his wrist. He loves that feeling of completion he gets by feeling Carl's fingers filling in the spaces between his own. It feels like they're meant to be there, like the spaces between Ron's fingers are there for the sole purpose of being filled in by Carl's fingers. He doesn't get that sense of finding his other half when holding his wrist.

"See, those are the tentacle thingies and that's the bulbous body head thing," Ron says, cautiously leaning out and using his finger to illustrate.

Carl narrows his eyes and stares. "Oh, ok, I can see it now. It looks like the jellyfish has a kite. You see it?"

Ron squints and stares. "Oh yeah, you're right. I can see the kite and it looks like the jellyfish is holding the string."

"Lopsided Jellyfish Flying a Kite," Carl murmurs with a relaxed smile, feeling Ron's fingers gently dance across his knuckles.

Ron smiles. "Lopsided Jellyfish Flying a Kite it is."

They both admire their new creation in silence for a moment.

"That one over there looks like a swan," Carl mutters, pointing to the left.

Ron looks over and nods in agreement. "It does, it looks like a swan...with a backpack."

"Oh yeah, you're right! That trail of stars sorta make a hump over the back."

"It's a School Swan," Ron mutters with a dorky smile.

"School Swan?"

"Yeah, it's got a backpack because it's going to school."

"Oh, so just because it has a backpack on you assume that it's going to school? Well, what if the swan is actually an extremely successful lawyer or businessman and just happens to carry around all of his important files and papers in a backpack?"

Ron starts to crack up and shakes his head. "Sorry I never thought of it that way!"

Carl smiles and gives Ron's hand a squeeze. "You should be sorry. The swan is pretty pissed off and thinks it was degrading of you to make an assumption like that."

Ron's shoulders shake in silent laughter. "If the swan wants to come off as professional, he should ditch the stupid backpack and get a briefcase."

Carl starts to laugh hysterically too. "W-watch your mouth, Ron!" He tries to mockingly scold, but there's absolutely no conviction to his voice and he can't stop wheezing out breathy laughs. "You're talking shit on the president of Swan Inc."

Ron laughs harder. "Wh-what the fuck is Swan Inc?!"

"It's a Swan Company where they make swan products," Carl says with a snort of laughter.

"Swan products?"

"Yeah like... feather toupees for molted patches and scarfs to keep their long necks warm," Carl replies seriously like its a well known fact that Swans produce feather toupees in large scale factories.

Ron laughs and squeezes Carl's hand. "You're the only person I know that can make up shit like that so easily and on a whim. I believe the proper term is 'creative'."

Carl just shrugs with a shy smile and wipes tears of laughter out of the corners of his eyes. "Thanks."

Ron hums a laugh in his throat and looks over at Carl with an affectionate grin. "I apologize to the swan, it was wrong to make an assumption like that. I make dumb assumptions all the time and I need to learn to stop."

Carl quirks an eyebrow in curiosity. "What kind of dumb assumptions do you make?"

Ron blushes a little and shrugs, momentarily forgetting the pain in his shoulders. They make sure to harshly remind him. "Well, this is really embarrassing, but I assumed that the hat you wear is a cowboy hat because it sort of looks like one, but I have a feeling that it's not. You don't strike me as the Clint Eastwood type."

Carl laughs and pulls his hat off with his free hand. "You're right it's not a cowboy hat. You have no idea how many people think it is though... Glenn and Daryl jokingly call me a cowboy all the time. It's actually my dad's old sheriff hat."

"Your dad was a sheriff before this whole thing started?" Ron asks curiously. He's always interested to hear about where Carl's been, what his life was like, and what he's been through before arriving at Alexandria. All Carl's told him is that he is originally from Atlanta, Georgia.

Carl nods and looks down at his hat. "Yeah, he was a sheriff back in Atlanta. He gave me his hat a long time ago, a few months after the shit hit the fan. This hat has been with me through almost everything. It's been through hell and back. As weird as it sounds, it's almost like... Like it's a part of me at this."

Ron looks down at the worn hat in astonishment. That hat has seen everything, and knows all about everything Carl's been through because it was there too. It's patches of worn fabric, frayed edges, and bent brim seem to tell stories of the insane and horrific adventures that it's wearer has endured. Ron wishes he knew about it all, he wishes he could see the bruises and scars he knows are there but can't because Carl covers them up and hides them. 'Sort of like when my mom covers her bruises with concealer,' Ron thinks with a sad sigh.

Carl smiles sadly down at his hat and runs his fingers over the brim. He sort of wishes that his hat could talk, because then it could tell Ron everything for him. A part of Carl wants to open up and show Ron everything and be completely honest and open, but a bigger part of him is terrified that once he shows Ron the dark side that he'll run for the hills. And the really sad part is that Carl wouldn't blame him. There are some days when he wishes that he could get away from himself because he feels like a filthy animal or a sniveling pathetic lowlife.

"The hat sure looks like it's been through a lot," Ron observes aloud.

Carl laughs a little and nods. "Yeah, it's definitely worn in at this point."

"It suits you."

"Thanks," Carl mutters with a small smile. He sets his hat back on his head and tilts the brim up, away from his eyes. "Even though I don't look like Clint Eastwood?" He jokingly asks.

Ron smiles and squeezes his hand. "Yeah. You wear it just like Eastwood, brim cocked down over your eyes like a cowboy, but you wear it better."

Carl grins and takes another look up at the sky. "You know... when I was younger I didn't wear it cocked down. A friend of mine got me into wearing it that way."

"Really?" Ron asks curiously, hoping for another bit of insight into Carl's past.

Carl slowly nods, as if debating whether or not to share his story. "Yeah. I used to be...really afraid. Afraid of dying, afraid of the walkers, afraid of losing people... afraid of what I was. But I could hide that fear. I have a brave face, I've always had a brave face, so I'd just...put on my brave face and act like I was ok. But...I wasn't. And then...I lost people and my fear changed from fear of dying to fear of losing...I was in a lot of emotional pain and distress, but I hid that behind my brave face too. I wanted to look ok, so I did... but I couldn't actually fix myself or make the pain go away. I was a torn-up, terrified kid but the image I put out made me look like I was fine, maybe a little sad and stoic, but fine. No one saw the fear or the hurt behind the mask; not my dad, not Daryl, not Glenn, not Carol...but my one friend saw right through me."

Ron nods, shifting slightly so that he can look at his friend as he talks. Carl avoids eye contact, the brim of his hat lowered down to cover his face. Ron gently traces his fingers over the grooves between Carl's knuckles, silently encouraging him.

"One night I was sitting by myself and stargazing out a window," Carl says quietly "The day had been awful. Something...really bad happened and I ...did something even worse. I was just trying to clear my head, I wanted to be alone and go off to my happier place for a little while. My friend came up and sat next to me. She started off by talking to me about the stars, telling me about the view she used to have from her bedroom window and talking about all of the shooting stars she'd seen and made wishes on. It was just chit chat, small talk to help me relax. I'd already known that she was really there to talk about something else, something more serious...probably about what I'd done earlier. We eventually started talking about Johnny Cash for some reason, I don't totally remember the conversation, I think she switched the subject from actual stars to 'stars' as in celebrities. She told me that I made her think of the Johnny Cash song 'God's Gonna Cut You Down'. Do you know that song?"

"You can run on for a long time. Run on for a long time. Run on for a long time. Sooner or later God'll cut you down. Sooner or later God'll cut you down," Ron sings quietly, answering Carl's question.

Carl laughs a little and smiles. "Ok, so I see you're familiar with it. Anyway, she said I reminded her of that song. I asked her why, and I vividly remember that she told me that it was because I run and I run from my problems by not dealing with them. That I store my emotions away in a box and pretend that they don't exist and that I just go through the motions. That I needed to stop running and hiding and that I needed to open up that box full of emotions and sort them all out. I had been shocked and a little scared that she'd seen right through me, so I rolled my eyes at her and told her that she was wrong and that I was fine. I told her that she could be an emotional mess if she wanted to, but that I was above that. I said it with a straight face so I thought she'd believe me, or just let it go or that she'd be insulted and go away. But she was persistent, and she told me that I was full of shit."

Ron listens intently and nods. He wishes the details weren't so vague, and that Carl would tell him about the backstory, but he won't push Carl to share any more than what he's comfortable sharing. He can't help but have a few questions though. What awful thing happened the day that the story takes place and what terrible thing did Carl do? He wonders what horrible things Carl went through that convinced him that emotions weren't a luxury that he could afford. He wonders who this friend was and why he doesn't use their name.

But most of all, it makes Ron seriously wonder if Carl still hides things behind a face and acts like he's ok when he's really bleeding.

"She tried to get me to talk, telling me I was lying and that ignoring my problems wouldn't make them go away and that the more I stored away my emotions, the stronger and scarier they'd get."

"Your friend's right," Ron says quietly.

Carl thickly swallows and nods. "She was. But...I was really just... in a bad place at the time. I told her again that she was wrong, and to prove my point, I looked her in the eyes as I said it. My dad always told me that the best way to seem sincere and trustworthy was to make eye contact. I thought that she'd believe me then...but when I looked her in the eyes, she started to cry."

"She started crying?" Ron asks in confusion.

Carl nods. "She started crying. I felt bad and apologized, but it just made her cry harder."

"What'd you do?"

"I sort of froze up. I didn't know what I did wrong, so I just sort of watched her. I didn't know what to do. After a few minutes she collected herself and she stared at me with watery eyes. I apologized again, not sure what the hell I'd done wrong. And...she pulled me into a hug and held me like someone was trying to yank me away from her."

"Then what happened?"

"It felt weird being held, sort of nice but like...everything I thought I had to support myself vanished and her arms were suddenly the only things holding me up. Part of me had wanted to collapse and let myself shatter in her arms, but I quickly tried to reinforce my supports and after she let me go and tried to coax me into telling her about what hurt, I just brushed her off again and told her that nothing hurt and that I was fine and I said some other...kind of shitty things to her to try to get her to leave me alone. But I knew she wouldn't believe me and that she knew what was going through my head. She told me that I could say whatever I wanted to her, but that she wasn't going anywhere. And she called me a shitty liar."

Ron looks at his friend curiously. "Really? I mean, Glenn is a terrible liar and so is Sam, but you seem to be a good improviser."

Carl laughs hoarsely. "Yeah, I am, so I was pretty stunned that she saw behind my brave face and saw...all the bad stuff I had hidden under there. I stopped trying to lie, realizing it was pointless, and asked her how she knew. No one else knew, my own dad didn't see it...But she did somehow. She told me that I had a good poker face, but that my eyes gave me away. She said my eyes told a totally different story than my face... that when she looked into them that she could see...fear and sadness and pain. She said I had a sullen, brave, honest face, but the saddest eyes she'd ever seen."

Ron looks at him with a mixture of sadness and sympathy. It's then that he realizes that as Carl is telling his story, the brim of his hat is tilted down and covering his eyes. He has a feeling that it's not coincidental.

"So you started to tilt your hat down to hide your eyes so that people couldn't see you were hurting?" Ron asks quietly.

Carl's silence answers his question.

"Why do you still wear it like that?" Ron asks, his voice so quiet that it's barely audible.

"Same reason I did before," Carl whispers.

Ron feels his heart sink as he gives Carl's hand a gentle squeeze and leans closer to him. Carl keeps the brim over his eyes and Ron feels his hand start to shake.

He wants to hold him and make it all go away. He wishes he knew how to exorcise whatever demons are lurking around inside of Carl and tearing him apart. He wishes he could see the ghosts that haunt him and the fear and hurt in his eyes. Sometimes Ron can pick up on hints of underlying emotion hidden in Carl's voice, and sometimes his eyes flicker or dim with something that Ron can't quite decipher.

But he WANTS to know what it is. He WANTS to understand. He wants to help Carl, like how Carl helps him. He knows he can't fix it, but he wants to make it better. He wants to lessen the pain. He wants to open all of those boxes of emotion shoved away in the back of Carl's mind and sort through them.

He wants to lean down, pull the hat away from his face, and look him in the eye to see the emotion hidden there. He wants Carl to tell him everything, completely open up and unfold. He wants him to show the scars and bruises and explain how he acquired them. He wants to assure Carl that he won't get scared off by what he learns. He won't abandon him because of past decisions or experiences. He won't leave him in the dark by himself.

He can tell Carl is afraid of opening up to him and showing him everything. When telling stories, he always seems to conveniently leave out people's names, specific details of events that happened, and how things turned out.

But he knows it probably takes a lot out of Carl just to tell him the things that he does. Ron has a hunch that a lot of the scars and bruises backstories are extremely painful and upsetting things for Carl to discuss and think about. Ron completely understands, there are some things that he prefers not to think about or act like they never happened because they're just to hard for him to relive.

Ron is rather impressed with how much insight he's been given tonight. Carl's actually told him a lot in the past few hours. He told him about his happier place, mentioned his mom and acknowledged that she's dead, somewhat told him about a friend that's obviously no longer around, hinted at doing something unspeakable and living through something awful, and admitted that all of his sadness and pain may seem non existent but is very real can be seen through his eyes.

"The stars are amazing," Ron mutters offhandedly in an awkward attempt to change the subject and help Carl relax. He scoots closer to Carl so that their sides are touching and rests their conjoined hands in their laps.

Carl smiles and nods. "Yeah. They are."

"I'm glad you took me up here and showed me this. I've never really just...admired the night sky before."

Carl smiles. "The night sky is one of the most beautiful things I've ever seen and I just...wanted to share it with someone...Well actually..."

Ron looks over at him curiously. "What?"

"I've never wanted to share it before. It was my...private place where I blocked everyone out. I still don't want to share it with just anyone. But I want to share it with you because I don't want to block you out. I want you...close."

Ron smiles at him. "I want you close too."

Carl squeezes his hand and points up at the moon. "The moon is in its waxing gibbous stage, so it'll be full soon," he mutters. "When the moon is full, it's beautiful. I like it best when it's full because it looks like a gleaming silvery pond in the sky. Hopefully you'll stay awake and see it."

"I knew the moon had phases, but they're named?"

Carl nods.

"Where'd you learn that?"

"A friend."

"Is it...the same friend who read your eyes?"

Carl shakes his head and stares off absentmindedly at the moon. "No, different friend."

Ron looks sadly at the stars and wonders how many friends Carl has lost. He's not brave enough to ask though, afraid that asking will upset Carl and cause him to shut down, and Ron doesn't want to be blocked out.

"It's getting late, we should go inside," Carl mutters, letting go off Ron's hand and starting to slide off of the ledge. He stares back up at his friend, waiting for him to descend from the ledge and follow him back inside.

Ron follows him down, slipping awkwardly off the ledge (not letting go until his feet are touching the roof), shakily walks across the side of the roof (keeping his hands pressed flat against the wall for support), and crawls back inside through Michonne's bedroom window.

As he climbs through the open window, Carl hears soft breathing and a quit rustling noise. He looks over to see that Michonne is home, splayed out in her bed with her head shoved under her pillow, and sound asleep.

"Looks like whatever freaky terrorist group she created with Carol and Daryl has adjourned for the night," Ron mutters as he crawls through the window and sees Michonne's sleeping form.

"I wonder when she got back," Carl mutters.

"We were out on the roof for at least an hour, so who knows," Ron whispers.

Carl nods, cautiously tiptoeing across the bedroom to Michonne's bedside. He carefully tugs the sheets further up to cover Michonne's shoulders, tucking her in. He tilts the pillow away from her face, stoops down, and places a quick kiss to her temple before awkwardly setting the pillow back on her head.

Ron smiles. He finds it funny and sweet how Carl is cold and distant with just about everyone, but if you're one of the few people that manages to wheedle their way into his affections, he REALLY loves and cares about you and would do anything for you. He has what some may call a sweet, devotional, almost childlike affection for those that he loves. Once he's latched on, he's loyal to a fault.

"What time is it?" Carl asks as he and Ron quietly creep out of Michonne's bedroom and close the door behind them.

Ron pokes his head in the nursery and looks at the clock. "It's about 1:30 in the morning."

Carl laughs quietly. "That's funny. It doesn't feel like 2 AM, you know?"

Ron nods in agreement. "Yeah, it feels like 10 PM, 11 at the latest."

"So..." Carl drawls, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning against the wall. "What do you want to do?"

Ron shoves his hands into his jean pockets and looks at the ground as he thinks of something cool for them to do at 2 in the morning. He really has no ideas until he starts to think about being up on the roof with Carl and knowing that that's his place. His secret place with secret personal meaning that no one else knows about but them. And then Ron gets an idea, quickly thinking of a place of his own that he has yet to let anyone else into. "Well...you showed me something amazing and meaningful tonight. I think I should return the favor."

Carl looks at him with intrigue and his eyes light up. "You want to show me something?"

Ron nods. "Yeah, but it involves taking a 2 AM walk. You up for it?"

Carl nods. How the hell could he not be up for seeing something that's obviously extremely meaningful and secretive to Ron? Besides, Ron just wasted almost two hours of his life listening to him awkwardly and unsuccessfully try his best to open up and tell an extremely personal story. Going to see whatever secretive and most likely personal thing Ron has to show him is really the least he can do to return the favor.  
"Yeah, let's go."

They quietly descend the stair case and slip out the front door.  
-

They walk silently down the empty streets. It's dark and both boys have to squint to see the stretch of cement in front of them and avoid tripping over themselves. It's eerily quiet, the only sounds are their footsteps, the quiet whistle of the wind, and a faint rustling of the grass and leaves being gently blown.

"It's kind of creepy with no one else around," Ron mutters.

Carl nods. "It's weird walking in the streets while everyone else is asleep."

"Feels like a ghost town."

"Well, we'd be the ghosts then, wouldn't we?"

Ron looks at him in confusion and pulls his jacket around him closer with a shiver. "We would?"

Carl nods, burrowing his hands in the pocket of his hoodie for warmth. "Yeah, we would. Everyone else is asleep, and we're still up and walking around. Like two ghosts roaming the empty streets of a seemingly lifeless and sleeping Alexandria."

Ron smiles and looks over at his friend. "And we roam because of the restlessness buzzing around inside of us and thrumming in our heads like a shitty 80's disco song. The restlessness prevents us from resting in peace. Both literally and metaphorically."

Carl laughs quietly and nods, following Ron down the street. "Yep... I wonder what it feels like to be a restless disembodied spirit."

Ron can't help but laugh and shake his head. He doesn't know anyone else other than Carl that would try to rationalize their own figure of speech. "Well, what's it feel like to be a restless embodied being?"

Carl shrugs. "It's hard to explain how something feels. I guess being a restless embodied being...sucks."

"Sucks. That's the best you can do?"

Carl laughs and shrugs. "Uh...it feels itchy, like your skin is crawling and itching, like your bones are trying to shed the skin off of them but the skin is sticking to them like glue. What does restless feel like to you?"

Ron bites his lip as he thinks. "Eh...kind of like a weird and annoying buzzing; like a mild and constant electric shock in your chest and legs and head. Restless feels like there's something uncomfortable and heavy in your stomach that's trying to squirm through your muscle and skin tissue to break out."

"That still doesn't answer my question."

Ron raises an eyebrow. "Sure it does, if feeling restless as an embodied being feels like-"

Carl shakes his head. "But spirits don't have bodies. We both said that being restless physically FELT like something. Spirits don't have skin, so they can't feel like they're skin is crawling and they don't have muscles or flesh to feel something heavy and uncomfortable squirm through. So it would have to feel different, wouldn't it?"

"I guess so. I don't know what it feels like to exist without a body, sorry. I'd assume that it feels weird, like...like you're drifting maybe? Like how your lower arm feels when your elbow is broken; like it's not really attached to anything yet still supporting itself."

"You're elbow's been broken?" Carl asks, looking up at his companion.

Ron's face flushes and his gaze drops to his feet. "Um, well, yeah...yours hasn't?"

Carl shakes his head. "I got my wrist broken once, but not my elbow. How'd you manage to break your elbow?"

Ron makes a face, looking hesitant and uncertain and some other negative emotion that seems to cloud over his face. He starts to bite his inner cheek and chew on it, an unintentional action of his that serves as a signal that Carl has learnt means he's uncomfortable. Carl quickly realizes that Ron has most likely had several bones broken during his lifetime, and that most of his injuries probably aren't caused by typical dumb kid stuff like trying to jump over three trash cans on a skateboard or trying to do a slam dunk backwards while jumping off of a trampoline.

"Sorry," Carl apologizes quietly, hoping he didn't brush any sore spots.

Ron shakes his head. "No, it's ok, it's just...not something I've ever discussed with anyone."

Carl nods. "I get it. It wasn't any of my business asking, I'm sorry."

Ron let's out a weak chuckle and shakes his head. "Don't apologize, you didn't do anything wrong. If someone mentioned breaking something strange like their elbow I'd probably ask too. It's a weird thing to break. Besides, I impede on your privacy and ask shit that I shouldn't all the time. So it's totally fine."

"You don't impede on my privacy, you're just...curious and concerned."

"But I ask you things that make you uncomfortable. I can tell because you get...quiet. I used to think you were naturally just quiet, but now that I know you, I know that you being quiet either means that you're in deep thought or that you're uncomfortable or sad...or all three."

Carl has no idea how to respond to that. It's true. Ron's completely correct. Carl finds it amazing that the taller boy is able to have such a good understanding of him and how he works. Almost everyone else is always confused by his actions or unable to gauge his reaction or emotional state of mind, but Ron has picked up on how Carl operates and has picked up on most of his body language in a very short period of time. It's almost like he has a Carl Grimes Manuel or something. Or maybe Michonne has secretly been giving him 'Carlese' lessons.

"You don't have to be...scared of telling me things. I promise that no matter what you tell me, I'll still be here beside you," Ron says quietly, nervous that what he's saying is too brash.

Carl swallows thickly and feels his heart start to hammer in his chest. 'No you won't,' he thinks sadly. 'Not after hearing about everything. You'll either see that I'm a killer and run off in fear or disgust, or you'll see that I'm fucked up beyond repair and run away because it scares you or you'll waste your time trying to fix me.'

Ron watches Carl's posture go rigid and his hands clench the fabric of his hoodie. He can faintly hear a weird and steady thrumming noise, like a drum being beaten in time miles away. He quickly realizes that he's hearing Carl's heart pounding. He looks over at him in slight concern, not entirely sure that it's natural and/or healthy for hearts to beat that hard and fast. He then realizes that his heart pounding a million miles a minute means that he's scared. Carl Grimes is scared. And Ron can't help but feel his own blood start to run cold.

"Carl?"

"Yeah?"

Ron looks over at him. "You don't have to wear a brave face for me either. You can open those boxes crammed full of emotion...I'll help you sort through them."

Carl tilts his head further down and let's out a forced and bitter sounding laugh. He wants to explain that he DOES have to wear it, that Ron WILL either start to treat him like a victim and waste his time trying to piece him together or run away in fear. That he wants to tell him everything and let him in, and that he really is just scared to tell him about all of the truly horrible things he's lived through and done. He's come to terms with it himself, but he doesn't know if another person who doesn't know and wasn't there will be able to.

Ron watches Carl continue to walk in a bizarre too stiff manner. His ears feel like they might start bleeding as the silence between them stretches on. He opens his mouth to say something, but can't think of anything to say and just ends up gaping like a fish.

What is he supposed to say? Does he try to reassure him again or will that just cause him to totally shut down? Does he change the subject or will that just make it worse? Does he just let the silence stretch on? Once again, Ron is reminded of a Rubix Cube, feeling like he's anxiously turning and twisting around the rows of colors in hopes of lining it all up, or at least lining parts of it up to get some idea of what Carl's dealing with.

"Where are you taking me?" Carl asks, trying to shift the subject from his own messed up life to Ron's.

Ron turns the corner, leading Carl further down the street. "My house. Well, my garage to be more specific. You've been in my garage before, right?" Ron asks with a little smile.

Carl nods and feels his lips turn upwards. "Yeah, it looks like an abandoned art museum with all of your mom's artwork all over the place."

Carl's only been in the Anderson's garage once, and it's a fucking mess. Jessie stores her art down there, so it looks like a run down art museum with several sculptures pushed into the corners and covered with dusty tarps, paintings stacked up on top of cheap lawn chairs, and pottery balanced precariously atop the piles of paintings. Books of her sketches also lay in piles stop the unused old ping pong table along with an intricate mosaic tile picture of a little girl and a tiny dog. Cardboard boxes full of what Ron refers to as 'abstract and unique' pieces of her art sit untouched atop of a filing cabinet, which is also full of little ornaments that she's designed out of household items like bottle caps, string, glitter, Legos, and mismatched earrings. Carl seriously wonders what Ron has to show him that's in his basement. Some of his mother's art most likely, that's all that's in the garage.

Ron laughs. "That's a nice way of putting it. I usually just say that it looks like a tornado blew through and that it's a goddamn mess. But sure, we're going to go browse through an abandoned art museum."

"You wanna show me some of your mom's artwork?" Carl asks as they round a corner.

Ron shakes his head. "My mom doesn't call what I'm about to show you artwork. I believe she calls them Shadows."

Carl looks at Ron in confusion. "Shadows?"

Ron nods and smirks. "Yeah...you're about to wander through an abandoned art museum to look at Shadows. Exciting, right?"

Carl smiles up at him. "Can't wait."  
-

As Ron quietly lifts up the garage door just high enough for Carl and he to duck under it, he thinks about how weird it feels sneaking into his own home. Ron knows that if he gets 'caught' there really aren't any major consequences. Well, besides his dad's full blown wrath if he wakes him up. So yeah, maybe there are some consequences. Major ones that involve black eyes and broken ribs.

Carl finds himself wandering through moonlight lit rows of paintings stacked on top one another and sculptures hidden behind heavy tarps and blankets. He's always blown away by Jessie's artistic abilities.

"So...how do I tell the Shadows apart from the regular art?" Carl asks as delicately shifts a stack of paintings.

Ron smiles sadly as he ducks under the garage door and softly closes it. "My mom hides the Shadows. She doesn't like them and she REALLY doesn't like other people looking at them. To be totally honest, I think her Shadows are way better than any of her artwork. They're more...down to earth. Her normal artwork are paintings and drawings of animals, generic scenes of nature, and the occasional portrait with a smiling face. Her Shadows are of...other things. She claims that she doesn't make Shadows anymore, she always insists that she try to stay positive. I think that's bullshit. Self expression isn't always positive because what's going on around you and shaping you isn't always positive. What's wrong with a little bit of angst or depression? I think a hint of melancholy makes anything ten times more realistic and relatable. Positive 'it's all good, and happy, and perfect' is bullshit and it makes me gag."

Carl nods, following Ron through the aisles of artwork. "Yeah, overly happy ignorance and obliviousness is annoying. No matter how positive your mom tries to be, her problems are still going to be there and being positive isn't going to help her come to grips with it. Maybe it's how she copes? The whole 'if I'm ok and can keep breathing everything is perfect' mindset might be what keeps her going," Carl mutters.

Ron nods, gently pushing a sculpture of the Eiffel Tower to the side. "It is, and I guess I should be happy that she has a way of coping and doesn't just shut down on me, but the 'I'm okay' bullshit pisses me off. That's why I like her Shadows so much. Because they prove that she's not okay and that she expresses her pain, as awful as that sounds."

"You said she doesn't like them, so I'm guessing they're hidden?"

"Sort of. She hides them among all of the other art work down here. They're scattered around here everywhere, so you just gotta dig around a little bit to find them," Ron explains as he starts shifting through some of the paintings.

Carl nods and begins looking through a sketchbook. "So, will I definitely be able to tell when I find a Shadow?"

Ron nods. "Yeah, you will. I'll let you know if I find one."

Carl continues flipping through the sketchbook. There are several little drawings of birds and flowers. But nothing negative or dark or even remotely sad. He flips through two more sketchbooks, both which are filled with drawings of different breeds of dogs and trees and skylines. None of the drawings seem out of the ordinary.

Carl is about go over to Ron and see if he's found anything when he notices the edge of a painting's frame sticking out in the stack. Carl carefully pulls the painting out and holds it up to look at it.

"Hey, Ron, I think I found one," Carl mutters softly.

Ron looks up from the stack of paintings he's flipping through to see what Carl has. His lips press into a thin, grim line and he nods. "Yeah, you found one."

Carl admires the painting. At first glance it seems like a normal picture of a young woman sitting in a kitchen chair with a big smile on her face, but the more Carl examined it, the more uneasy it made him feel. Upon closer inspection Carl noticed that the woman's ankle was hand cuffed to the leg of the chair, there were tears in her eyes, the black lines that he originally assumed were her teeth are actually a zipper, and the black eyeshadow around her eyes seems to look more like bruising and swelling.

"This one always made me sad because I wondered if she really felt like she was trapped here and unable to say anything. She made this one a few months ago."

Carl nods, gently setting it back on the stack. "Does she know that you look through her artwork?"

"Probably not. I only started doing it a year ago."

Carl nods, continuing to shift through the stack. "Does she make names for her works or not?"

Ron shakes his head. "She doesn't, but I do sometimes for fun. I called that one 'Trapped'."

Carl looks over at him sadly. Ron looks back at him, mouth still set in a straight emotionless line.

"I think my favorite is 'Bruises'," Ron mutters as he starts looking through a sketchbook. "I'm not sure where it is down here though...oh hey, here's another Shadow," he says. Carl steps beside him and peers at the notebook page to see a drawing of a broken beer bottle, the shards covered in blood and arranged to look like an eyeball.

"Whoa. Does your mom know that you know about her Shadows?"

Ron nods. "I first saw one as a little kid, it was a painting of a crying man with green glass stuck in his palms and the blood was pooling down his arms. I wasn't supposed to see it, but I had been looking for my sled in the attic and stumbled across it. I remember that it had confused me and scared me a little, so I took it downstairs to show my mom. I knew she must've painted it since she paints and draws all the time no one else in our neighborhood sold art. I remember when I showed it to her that her face went white and she told me to put it back in the attic. I was stubborn, so I refused to and kept asking her to tell me why she painted it and what it was supposed to be. She eventually gave in and gently told me that she painted it because she was 'upset and sad' and that I wasn't allowed to tell Dad about it, that the painting was our secret. She also made me promise not to go in the attic by myself anymore, probably because she didn't want me finding anymore paintings like that. I asked her why I couldn't tell dad about the painting, because I was seriously confused at that point and thought it was just a creepy painting. That's when my mom told me that she didn't like that painting, and that the painting wasn't even a painting because it was 'dark' and that she had painted it to reflect what she was going through. At the time I didn't understand what she meant because I was only 8. I guess my confusion showed because she told me that they were like her shadow. That sort of made sense to me then, so I went with it. I didn't poke around her Shadows again for awhile, not until last year when she moved all of her art to the basement. I'd helped her move her shit, and I noticed several darker paintings and drawings. That got me curious about how many 'shadows' she had, so I started coming down here some nights and looking around...I've learned she has a lot of them."

"Enough to fill an abandoned art museum," Carl mutters softly, watching Ron continue to flip through the sketchbook.

"I used to not understand these paintings, but now I understand them so well that I know the message that my mom's trying to convey in each one of them. They help me understand my mom better too...I used to think that I caught her smile flickering and saw her eyes get glassy. Now I know."

Carl looks up at him, feeling extremely sorry for him. He once again wishes that there was something he could do to help Ron. He wishes he had a cure to alcoholism almost as much as he wishes he had a cure to the zombie virus. He finds it heartbreaking that Ron spends his nights shifting through his mom's artwork just to find paintings that prove that she's not as happy and grounded as she seems to be and that she's actually extremely upset and maybe even a little bit depressed.

Carl wonders if seeing that his mom's not okay makes Ron feel a little better because it assures him that he's not the only one that's dispirited and broken by the situation.

"Hey, there's one," Carl whispers, pointing to a drawing of a two baby owls, staring wide eyed with scenes of violence, like a man pointing a gun and a house on fire, in their eyes and bandages over bloody stumps where their wings should be.

"Yeah, I've always liked this one because her subliminal messaging isn't so subliminal."

"That's you and your brother, right?" Carl asks quietly.

"That's what I think," Ron mutters. "Eyes full of violence because they've seen awful things-"

"Clipped wings because they've been permanently damaged," Carl mutters. "It could mean a lot of different things except there's two of them and they're small..."

Ron nods. "Yeah, that sort of gives it away."

Carl looks up at Ron, trying to read his facial expression. He doesn't look uncomfortable, but his head is bowed and he looks sort of tired and really, really sad. Like, 'first grader that just watched his puppy get hit with an ice cream truck' sad. He can't imagine how hard it is to look through your mother's twisted and disturbing paintings and drawings that show just how damaged and sad she is. It probably hurts even more since she's always forcing smiles and acting like she couldn't be better just to give everyone else a false sense of hope.

"I don't think that there's anymore Shadows in here," Ron mutters, flipping through the rest of the sketchbook.

Carl nods and starts looking through the paintings again. "How long has she been making Shadows?" He asks

Ron shrugs. "The first time I found one I was 8, so 7 years at least. She claims she doesn't make them anymore, but I know she's lying because at least once a month I find a new one."

"Do you ever ask her about them."

"Yeah, when I'm especially upset and want her to drop the facade I ask about them to be a shit. She always gets defensive and claims she doesn't make them anymore, but I found a new one three nights ago," Ron mutters, pawing through a pile of paintings behind Carl. "And if I remember correctly it's in this pile...here it is."

Carl turns around as Ron yanks a painting out and sets it on the floor for him to look at.

It's a painting of a typical living room that looks inhabited. But it's very off and Carl can tell right away that it's not as serene and average as it seems. The flowers in the vase on the coffee table are dead and wilted, the paint on the walls is peeling and chipped, the windows are all broken and the shards are scattered along the floor, and the coatrack in the background is knocked over onto the floor. The coffee table is covered with empty wine and vodka bottles and dead flower petals. A pretty red box with silk lining that holds a single silver sobriety chip is also set on the table. Instead of a family seated on the sofa, there's an empty bottle of beer, a crow, and an orange kitten with its fur all ruffled that looks frightened and sickly. There's what appears to be vomit on the floor mixed in with the glass shards.

"Holy shit," Carl mutters, taken aback.

Ron just nods. He doesn't trust his voice, knowing that if he talks his voice will break off unevenly and he'll choke on the lump in his throat.

Carl looks over at him, looking totally blown away and shocked. The other Shadows are disturbing, but so far this takes the cake for being the most fucked up. Ron looks down at the painting, an almost pained expression on his face.

"They do say alcoholism is the cure for marriage," Ron mutters dryly.

Carl looks over at him, wishing he knew what to say. He honestly isn't sure what to tell Ron. He could say that he's sorry, and tell Ron that he doesn't deserve to be in the shitty situation he's in, but Carl feels like he's said that at least 100 times before and it still hasn't helped or changed anything. He could say that none of this is Ron's fault, but he knows he could scream that until his voice box bled and Ron still wouldn't believe him.

Carl quickly decides that like in most situations, words aren't going to help, especially his awkward jumbled up spiel. He's never been good with words or saying the right thing, but he knows how to handle a delicate thing like this properly. You handle it silently, because from personal experience, Carl has learned that silence is better than saying the wrong thing. And that in a weird way, silence can be comforting. Sometimes. Other times, it consumes you and makes you feel empty and hallow.

Carl doesn't say a word and reaches out, grabbing Ron by the hand. He likes holding Ron's hand, it makes him feel secure and like he's not alone. He hopes that Ron gets the same sense of comfort when they hold hands, because that's all Carl feels he can do to help him.

Ron tightens his grip on Carl's hand and looks over at him with a smile. It's not a happy smile though, it's a sad smile. A secretive 'between you and me' sort of smile. A bitter sweet smile that makes Carl's heart sink and soar at the same time.

"You know, these Shadows are sort of like your Happier Place. I never wanted to share it with anyone else. It was my burden. My secret. But...I want to share it with you. I want you here. I don't want other people poking around in here, I actually flipped out on Mik once because he started looking through a sketchbook and I was scared he would find one of my mom's Shadows, but I feel like you should see it. When you shared your place with me, I figured I should share a place of mine with you. It's not a happier place, but it's...a relevant place."

Carl smiles at him. Not a happy smile, but a sad, secretive 'between you and me', bittersweet smile. He leans closer to Ron and gives his hand a squeeze. "I'm really happy you trust me enough to show me. This," he motions to the painting below them. "And the rest of the Shadows are really...incredible. This is amazing, I'd never guess that your mom expressed her negative emotions. I thought she just bottled them up."

Ron shakes his head. "She expresses it but she tries to hide it. She just...wants to be strong for Sam and I. It's honorable. But I actually have more respect for her when I look at these, they make me feel like...like she's not just plowing through and like I'm not the only one suffocating."

Carl looks over at him sadly. "You're not. She's just better at playing it off and hiding it."

Ron closes his eyes and nods, giving Carl's hand another squeeze before letting go and picking the painting off the floor and putting it back in the stack. "I forgot to show you this. I mean...I've thought about it but I never knew when because if I took you down here during the day my mom would be awake and would see and might be suspicious. I don't want to stress her out, I know she doesn't like her Shadows, but...I embrace them."

Carl smiles at him and continues looking through the paintings. "Are you good at embracing people's dark sides?" He asks meekly.

"Since I know everyone has one, yeah, I am pretty good at it. Some are darker than others, but I'm good at it."

Carl still looks uncertain and just continues looking through the artwork. He pulls out a painting of a woman's pale arms that are littered with big, ugly, purple and grey bruises. "Hey, Ron, I think I just found the one you mentioned being your favorite earlier. I think you called it 'Bruises'?"

Ron looks over at him and smiles faintly. "Yeah, this is 'Bruises'. This is my favorite because I actually saw my mom paint this one. One night after she took a shower and all of her concealer came off, she glanced down at her arms, and then she painted what she saw."

Carl looks at the painting sadly. "Are her arms usually this bruised?"

"Uh...I honestly don't know. She wears concealer all the time, and when she takes it off she makes sure to wear long sleeves, so I never really see her arms. I'd assume so though."

"Do your arms look like this?" Carl asks quietly.

Ron awkwardly bites his lip. "Uh, well, I mean, sometimes, but not all the time..." He stammers, self consciously tugging at his jacket.

Carl looks at him, feeling guilty for asking as the question seems to have sparked a bit of anxiety in Ron. Carl watches him awkwardly stammer and his face flush.

"I'm sorry, this is the second time tonight that I've asked you something that I shouldn't have. My bad, I'm sorry," he apologizes.

Ron smirks at him and shakes his head. "It's fine. Besides, if you want to keep up with me in the 'asking personal questions that shouldn't be asked' contest you need to ask me 4 million more personal questions."

"Hey, you don't ask me THAT many questions that make me uncomfortable."

"I feel like I do, and I'm seriously really sorry about it. I know that I ask you too many questions and-"

"Ron, man, you really don't," Carl insists as he puts the picture back where he found it.

"Seriously, don't spare my feelings here, I know I do. I don't even try to, but it just...slips out. Like a few days ago when you accidentally said something about sleeping in a cell and I asked like three questions about it in a row, and when you mentioned someone named Sophia and I asked a few questions even after you showed clear signs of discomfort. I DO ask too many questions. If I were a cat, curiosity would've killed me by now."

Carl can't help but laugh and playfully give Ron a shove. "Stop beating yourself up over it. I do it to you too. I notice your bruises I can't help but ask. You mention a broken bone, I ask. You briefly talk about the abuse and a bazillion questions pop into my head. It's like word vomit. I'm just as bad as you are."

"No you're not. You keep most of your questions in your head but I just impulsively ask," Ron says, going back to looking through a stack of paintings.

"Maybe that just means you're a better communicator than I am," Carl mutters, walking over to the filing cabinet. He eyes the cardboard boxes full of 'abstract' art curiously. He looks over his shoulder to see Ron busy shifting through a pile of paintings, so he precedes in his attempt to reach the box and get it down. Even up on his tiptoes he's not tall enough to reach it, so he carefully moves a few sketchbooks off a lawn chair and onto the floor, carries the chair over to the filing cabinet, and climbs on top of it. He still has to reach, but he manages to grab the box and get it down.

He sits down in the chair and opens the cardboard box up. It apparently hasn't been touched in quite some time, because dust flies off of it as Carl opens it up and it goes up his nose and down his throat, causing him to cough.

"You ok?" Ron asks, peering up from the painting he's inspecting.

"Yeah," Carl wheezes with another weak hack. He dusts the dust off his hands before looking into the box.

He's surprised to see a totally bizarre assortment of items inside of the box. There's a weird figurine cow, a sock puppet, a few sheep that seem to be carved out of soap, and a few drawings. Carl picks up a drawing to look at it. He quickly realizes that it's not drawn by Jessie, but by a young child.

It's a drawing in crayon of a family. The dad is drawn rather large and he looks mad, a frown etched onto his face. The mom is much smaller than the dad, and she has a baby in her arms. She looks happy, but her one arm is in a sling and she has a black eye. There's a little boy standing far away from the rest of them. He looks extremely sad, frowning. There's something scribbled in the lower right hand corner in blue crayon. It's barely legible, but if Carl squints and tilts his head he can read it:  
Mrs. Lindy's 3rd Grade Room  
Ron Anderson

Carl feels his heart beat faster. He picks up another drawing to look at. It's very similar to the first one, drawn in crayon and by a young kid. It's a picture of Jessie, she's smiling, but there's purple scribbling on her face that looks like bruising. Written in the lower right hand corner in green crayon is a sloppy signature: Ron Anderson. Carl looks at the last two drawings. One is of Pete, he's frowning and his eyebrows are knitted. Ron Anderson is written in the corner in red crayon. The last picture is of Pete and Jessie together. Pete is drawn noticeably larger, and neither is smiling. Ron's Anderson is written in purple crayon across the top.

"Ron?" Carl calls softly, splaying all of the pictures out across his lap.

"What's up? Did you find a Shadow?" He asks, walking over to his friend.

"Yeah, but they're not your mom's, their yours," Carl says as Ron stoops down next to him to look at the pictures. "You drew these didn't you?"

Ron picks up one of the pictures to look at it. His face falls and his lips twitch into a sad smile.

"Yeah, I drew these...I drew the family portrait in 3rd grade, we had this assignment in art and we were supposed to draw our families. The teacher saw my portrait and sent me to the guidance counselor's office with my picture. I guess it didn't fit in with the smiley, happy family pictures that my classmates drew. The counselor got all worked up over my picture too. She asked me why my mom's face was purple. I told her that that's how her face usually looks. She asked me how my mom broke her arm. I told her that I wasn't sure because mom had me locked up in the bathroom when it happened."

Carl looks at him sadly. "What did the counselor do?"

"She kept asking me questions, but I got scared and refused to answer her. I didn't want to get my dad in trouble, so I just kept quiet. She called my parents. I remember getting home and my mom crying and hugging me and fussing over me like she'd just learned I had leukemia. She sat me down and asked to see the picture. When I showed it to her she looked...sad. So sad. She asked me if I really thought of our family that way. I told her...I told her that I wasn't thinking, that alls I did was draw us. She started crying again and I tried to make her stop by hugging her, but she just kept crying. The counselor had scheduled to meet with me the next day and meet with me and my parents. I was so uncomfortable each time that I met with the counselor. She was nice and all with a calm smile and clean cut look, but I was honestly scared. She sat with me at a table and talked to me about stupid stuff, like baseball and math class. She gave me some crayons and a piece of paper and asked me to draw my mom. It seemed like a simple command, so I drew my mom. The counselor asked me about my picture. She asked me again why her face was bruised, and I told her that I drew her how she looked. She asked other questions, but once again I got scared and refused to answer. She moved on and made me draw my dad. When I finished she asked me why he looked so mad, and once again, I told her I drew him how he looked. She made me draw my parents together. I did and she asked me why they both looked unhappy and why my dad was so much bigger. I didn't say anything. She asked me if I was happy. I started crying and ran out of the room."

Carl looks down at the pictures sadly. "What happened when she met with your parents?"

"I don't exactly know, I wasn't there. I guess they must've lied about how mom broke her arm and just told them that dad was an alcoholic but left out all of the stuff about the abuse. They probably mentioned that it was tough and that I was unhappy, but made it sound benign enough to leave CPS out of it. But...the counselor still hung around me all of the time. She always stopped me in the hall to 'chat' and made me eat lunch with her in her office once a week. It was so...uncomfortable. I hated it. The kids in my class thought I was even weirder. It fucked me over more than it helped me."

Carl looks at him sadly and watches Ron look at his drawings. He sighs and puts his pictures back in the box.

"I'm sorry," Carl says quietly. He really has no idea what else to say, and once again, knows words won't be enough. He helps Ron put the drawings away and watches him put the cardboard box back on top of the filing cabinet.

"Why are you apologizing? You don't get drunk and best the shit out of everyone."

Carl shrugs. "It's not just your mom's Shadows that decorate this abandoned art museum," Carl mutters. "Yours do too."

Ron looks at him, and let's out a sad and shaky sigh. "I don't know why my mom kept those drawings, I wanted to throw them out."

"Maybe the same reason you like to look at her Shadows," Carl whispers.

Ron looks at his feet. "Maybe." Even with his face half hidden in the darkness, Carl can see that he's hurting. Bad. Carl suddenly lurched forward and pulls him into a tight hug. Ron just sort of slumps against him, resting his chin on Carl's shoulder and closing his eyes.

"Let's go. We've been poking around in the dark for too long. Some light will do us good," Ron mutters, feeling Carl's fingers run up his neck and brush against his temple.

Carl nods, pulling away, grabbing Ron's hand, and walking towards the garage door. Ron lifts the door and they sneak out and walk off into the night.  
-

There's a stretch of silence between them as they start to walk. They don't seem to be walking back to Carl's home, or anywhere in general. There is no designated destination, they're just walking.

"You know," Ron mutters "everyone has Shadows. Not just my mom. Not just me. Everyone. You can ignore your Shadows during the day, it's easy to because you're surrounded by people and you're occupied with other things. You can even pretend that you don't have any during the day because the sun keeps them away. But at night, when the sun sets and leaves you in the dark and you're alone, just you and your mind, they come back. Your shadows always come back. No matter what, at night, they always resurface."

Carl nods, understanding what Ron's saying all too well. He can't help but look off to his right to see his and Ron's shadows inky black shadows stretch out behind them on the cement.

"And you know, it's better to hide them. It's easier to pretend they aren't real. But they are. And...I feel better hiding them from people. Except for you. I want you to see them. I really fucking want you to see them because they're part of me. They're part of who I am. I want you to know everything, see every angle. Don't think that I'm sane or stable or anything. Because I'm not. But...that's me, you know? And I don't show other people that. I don't want them to think I'm crazy or weak. But I want you to know. Because I want you close."

Carl feels his heart stop and he looks over at Ron in amazement. "Man, because of what you just told me, you're one of the bravest people I know. I'm honored that you want me to know...I'm glad you want me to see you, the REAL you that's chipped and fucked up. I know everyone has Shadows. I think it's incredible that you...embrace them. I can't do that, I hide from mine...I always say I can deal with them. I always act like I can live with them. But I can't. I...I cried myself to sleep the first night I got here."

Ron stops in his tracks and looks over at his friend. "Why?" He asks quietly.

"Because out there...out there its survive, fight, sleep, scavenge, repeat. You don't PROCESS anything. You just...keep your head down and trudge on. But I got here, and I saw my new house, a nice, clean house. And I saw civilized people who haven't...done the shit I've done and ruined themselves, and I...I realize everything that's happened. I remember everyone I lost, I see their faces, I hear them...I lose it. I remember after that dinner party with everyone... Everyone smiling and laughing and TALKING to me like I'm normal, like I'm not a fucking psycho...I lost it. I sat on my floor, and I cried. I cried for myself, for every other broken soldier in my family, for my mom, for...for Beth and Tyreese. For Dale and T Dog and Sophia and Shane and Hershel and everyone else who deserves to be here. Because I don't deserve to be here. I don't. I should be dead. I should be gone. Not Beth, not Hershel, not Sophia, not Patrick, not my mom. Me."

Ron feels his heart stop as he watches Carl lower his head and watches his shoulders hunch forward. He can't see his eyes because of the brim of his hat, but he knows his eyes are probably watery. He doesn't know who any of the people he just listed are, but he knows that they must've meant something to Carl. He knows that they're probably ghosts that keep him up at night.

"You're amazing, ok? You ARE. It's not fucking fair that you ended up in a place like this. Your dad...you're an amazing person! I mean it. You embrace the dark, strive for the light, and know what's really important. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry. Man, you don't deserve any of those bruises or broken bones. Neither does your mom or brother. You're compassionate. You're hopeful with just enough cynicism and it's incredible. You have no idea what you mean to me," Carl stammers, feeling his eyes burn.

"Carl-"

"I want to show you my Shadows, but I can't. You'll get scared. You'll leave me. Ok?! I know it. If I were you, I would. So I don't even blame you. I blame me. It's me. It's my fault. I did it all, I fucked myself up and rebuilt myself with flimsy shitty structures. I'm selfish because I'd rather you not know me than you know me and end up hating me. I WANT to let you in. I really, really do. It's amazing that you let me in. You're brave. You're not afraid of being alone. I AM. I'm sick of being alone but I'm scared to get close. I don't want you to get scared when you see me. I CANT let you hate me, I can't. I want you close but I need to hold you at arms length. I'm sorry," Carl makes a choking sound and Ron feels his eyes get wet.

"Carl-"

"I'm not okay. I'm not good. I'm not alive, I'm not dead, I survived and continue surviving. I shouldn't be alive. I don't want to be sometimes. Sometimes I almost wish it had been me, not Hershel. Not Sophia. Not mom. Not Beth. Me. I can survive but I'm no good for anyone. I can't heal or teach or inspire. I can't help. I can't...I can't even get close. I can't open up. I can't do anything. I'm dead, I'm alive, I'm a walking corpse. I WANT to show you but you'll leave me, I'm sorry! I'm sorry! Please...You can promise me you won't get scared and run away all you want, but you still will. Everyone leaves. Everyone dies. Leaves or dies, or sticks around long enough to die on the inside. I'm so scared of losing people. Michonne, dad, Judith, Daryl, Glenn, Carol, Maggie, Tara, everyone. I can't open up anymore because losing hurts. The person you love becomes a part of you and when they die, part of you dies too. Please..."

Ron hears his voice falter and watches him bury his face in his hands.

"Carl," he tries to say, but the words won't come out of his mouth. His throat is dry and his tongue won't move. He can't move. He stands, watching Carl curl into himself and start to tremble.

"Carl," he manages to whisper.

"What?" Carl mumbles, keeping his face buried in his knees.

Ron stays beside him and touches his shoulder. "Carl."

Carl picks his head up from his hands and stares intently at the ground with his hat lowered over his eyes. "What?"

Ron, with a shaking hand, lifts the brim of the hat up out of Carl's face. Carl keeps his eyes trained on the ground, his stomach turning and his heart beating faster and faster.

"Carl." Ron mutters gently. "Carl."

Carl slowly tilts his head to the side. "What?" He mutters, voice cracking. He slowly looks up to look Ron in the eyes.

Ron's eyes bore back into Carl's. He licks his lips and feels his heart sink, noticing that the blue eyes looking back into his own look watery. And he can see the fear swirling around in them like a hurricane. He can see the hurt like a pale ghost in his iris.

"Th-there they are," Ron mutters with a weak smile.

"What?" Carl asks, sounding confused.

"Your Shadows. They're in your eyes. You saw mine earlier and now I'm looking at yours."

Carl sharply inhales and his gaze drops back to the ground. He swallows thickly and blinks away the tears in his eyes. He doesn't cry. But he can't stop shaking.

"You're not okay," Ron says matter of factly, feeling his own eyes burn with tears. "But that's cool. Because I'm not either."

Carl let's out a wheezy laugh and looks up at the stars. "I know you're not. But that is cool. I know broken people. It's the normal ones that confuse me."

Ron laughs and pulls Carl into a hug, nuzzling into his neck. Carl hugs him back, laughing again. It feels great being held. Like you're connected, like you're not alone.

"Here," Ron mutters, letting him go. "You asked earlier...what my arms looked like. I wear jackets for a reason."

Carl watches as Ron shrugs his jacket off to expose pale arms. There are fading and fresh bruises all over them and a few faded scars. Carl stares at them sadly, but he smiles. Not a happy smile, a sad secretive 'between you and me' bittersweet smile.

Ron smiles back at him before he starts laughing uncontrollably, throwing his head back as tears stream down his cheeks. 'I'm insane,' he thinks. 'I've gone off the deep end and then dug even deeper.'

"You wanna see something?" Carl asks, voice higher than usual. Ron watches as Carl lifts his hoodie and t shirt up to expose his stomach. There's a nasty looking deep scar on the left side of his stomach. Not a 'my cat scratched me' scar, a legit nasty 'holy shit where'd you get that?!' scar.

Ron stares at it. "Holy shit dude," he breathes.

Carl starts laughing, and Ron starts laughing again too. And they both just stand there laughing hysterically with tears of laughter rolling down their cheeks. They shake as they laugh and stare at each other with big dopey smiles. Big 'isn't it great to be broken' smiles.

They both start to run, laughing hysterically and running and shoving one another. They race down the street and run through the park. Their legs burn from exhaustion, and both boys collapse under the giant oak tree. They lay there, side by side, calming down and giggling, stray tears of laughter rolling down their cheeks.

"O-oh my god! Oh my god! Where'd you get that scar?!"

"Where'd you get all of those bruises?" Carl asks, turning his head to the side to look at him. His eyes are alight.

Ron smiles at him, scotching closer to him. "You know what? I just got an idea."

"What?" Carl asks.

"You have a bunch of questions for me. And I've got a bunch of questions for you. Both of us are afraid to ask but both of us want answers, right?"

"Right."

"I think," Ron whispers excitedly, "that each day, we both get two free questions. We can ask whatever we want, and the other has to answer. Sound like a good idea."

"It sounds like an awesome idea," Carl mutters with a big, tired smile.

Ron smiles back at him and yawns, scootching even closer to him so that their foreheads are pressed together.

Carl smiles at him. "I'm sorry," he mutters.

"For what?"

"Being a weirdo," he mutters, closing his eyes and pulling his knees up to rest against his chest.

"No need to apologize to your fellow weirdo," Ron mutters, awkwardly laying an arm over Carl's waist and piling him closer.

Carl let's him pull him closer. He enjoys the warmth that seems to practically radiate off of Ron's body. "I'm also sorry about everything else."

"Once again, not your fault. You didn't do anything wrong. I like you, you're great, ok?"

"I like you too," Carl mutters, feeling Ron's breath tickle his nose. He can't help but smile. "I like you a lot."

"Thanks for looking through my mom's abandoned art museum with me," Ron whispers with a snort of laughter.

"No problem. It was...really insightful."

"Carl?"

"Mmhmm?"

"You know, I said this earlier, but you don't have to be afraid of showing me your Shadows or scars. You don't need to be scared of me getting scared. I won't. I promise."

Carl frowns faintly and sighs. "Whatever, man. Mine are...darker than most people's."

"Doesn't matter. I'm not going anywhere."

"You have no idea what you just signed up for. Man, I don't want...to drag you down with me. I don't want to scare you away. I don't want to chase away the one person I've shown everything. I don't want to be alone, so I don't want to scare you away."

"You didn't run away from me and I've shown you done fucked up shit. I won't run away from you when you show me fucked up shit," Ron mutters, closing his eyes, feeling exhausted.

Carl smiles. "You mean it?"

Ron nods, shifting slightly so that he can pillow his head on Carl's chest and listen to his heart beat. "Yeah. I won't leave you alone."


	9. Autobiography of a Brave Coward

Hello everyone. Sorry for the wait.

Christa: glad you're doing better (:

Robert: Holy shit, man. I hope you feel better and are able to check out of the hospital soon. Best wishes and good health, dude. I'm sorry you're in so much pain and I hope it gets better.

Alysha: CONGRATULATIONS GRADUATE! I'm so very proud of you! You made it through high school without going on a homicidal rampage or giving up and turning to dealing drugs or prostitution. But seriously, I'm very proud of you and you should be proud of yourself. This is a late graduation gift, hope you like it!

DISCLAIMER: Do I even need to put this here anymore?

"Hey! I'm at 16!" Spencer shouts, leaning over the railing and grinning like an idiot as he shoots down a walker stumbling around near the entrance.

"Yeah? Don't be so arrogant, because I'm at 20!" Rositta yells from the upper platform.

"20?!" Abraham yells with a scoff. "I'm at 32!"

"How the hell are you at 32?! I'm only at 12!" Glenn asks dubiously.

"That's cuz you fell asleep! Gotta stay awake to stay in the game," Spencer teases, looking to his left to see the Asian slumped over against the wall, rubbing bloodshot eyes.

"It's hard to stay awake, especially three nights in a row," Glenn mutters defensively with a yawn.

"I've been awake all night and I'm still only at 14…." Tara mutters.

"Better rest up, we've got a big run tomorrow," Spencer says casually, still looking over at Glenn.

Glenn groans and dramatically bows his head. "Oh shit...I'm going to need a serious coffee fix to pull this off."

"Don't think we got any coffee but there's a shit ton of soda in the warehouse," Abraham says, looking out at the desolate and dark road below them. "That's caffeinated."

"Ugh. Soda is fine but I'm in the mood for an overly sweet cup of warm coffee with a ridiculous amount of half and half dumped into it. And maybe a bit of that weird caramel flavored sweetener," Glenn mutters with a smile.

Spencer smiles. "Yeah, I could go for that too. I haven't had coffee in….Jesus, months now."

"You two don't really like coffee," Rositta says with a snort. "REAL coffee lovers drink it black, not full of sugary sweeteners."

"The sweeteners is what makes or breaks the deal," Tara argues. "I never drank black coffee, I always drank it with creamer. A LOT of creamer."

"Creamer's good," Glenn slurs sleepily.

Spencer chuckles as he watches Glenn struggle to stay awake. "Keep those eyes open Glenn, because once they close the Sharpies come out."

Tara snorts and rolls her eyes. "God, Spencer, how old are you? Ahhh….good times. I remember all of those parties….wake up with genitalia and curse words written all over your body for your friends and family to gawk at."

"Yeah…" Spencer sighs out, a sudden surge of nostalgia hitting him harder than a truck. "Those were the best types of parties. I'd kill to wake up to find my friends drawing dicks on my face again. Jesus, never thought I'd say that."

Glenn sighs. "Yeah, never know what you'll miss until it's gone. I miss bitching about my boss at Joey's. I miss complaining about being underpaid and about how my car forever smelled like grease and pizza all because of my shitty job."

Abraham chuckles and shakes his head. "I feel ya. I used to turn on the golf channel, for no good reason, and fall asleep. Snooze on the worn-in couch with a cold beer, air conditioning, and the boring buzz of golf announcers droning on and on in the background. Man, I'd give my right nut to do that again."

"Claaaaaassy," Rosita says with a snort.

"As always," Glenn mutters with a sleepy smile.

"Don't fall asleep on us, Glenn. Think of it this way, it's daytime in China right now," Abraham jests.

Glenn laughs and bangs his head back against the railing with a wince. "First of all, I'm Korean. Second of all, Noah LEFT like two hours to go to sleep in his BED and you didn't give him hell for it."

"Noah's a newbie, you're experienced," Tara replies.

"Old people sleep more than kids," Glenn retorts, closing his eyes and curling up on his side.

"I never said you were old, i said you were EXPERIENCED. There's a big difference. Experienced means you've been surviving head-on for awhile now and should be used to pulling all-nighters."

"You should be used to pulling all-nighters," Glenn mocks in a high pitched voice.

"Hey!" Tara shouts, crossing her arms. "Don't make me come down there and smack you."

Spencer chuckles and smiles as he watches Glenn roll his eyes and curl further into himself. Night watch has become much more enjoyable since Rick's group arrived at the front gate. Most nights, before they got to Alexandria, Spencer endured night watch alone, hunched over the cold railing and smacking himself to maintain consciousness, whispering profanities to himself when he would momentarily doze off and end up face planting on the platform or driving his nose into the railing. The worst nights though, were when Aiden stayed up with him. On those dreadful nights, Spencer had to sit through HOURS of Aiden lamenting about everything and nothing. Nowadays, night watch is actually fun. The nights are filled with chatter and laughter and dumb stories and jokes. The best part is that Aiden still thinks Rick's group is sketchy as a back-alley lobotomy and refuses to do night watch with any of the members of Rick's group, so as long as at least one of them is on night watch, Aiden stays home. They're literally annoying little brother repellent.

"Hey, did you guys hear that?" Tara asks quietly, suddenly peering over the railing with a look of concentration on her face.

"Hear what?"

"Shhhh," she hushes, putting her finger to her lips, still peering at the stretch of dark road and woods below them.

Everyone goes silent and looks anxiously over the railing. Even Glenn staggers to his feet to take a peek.

"I don't hear anything," Abraham whispers.

"Just listen," Tara insists. "I know I heard something…."

Everyone goes silent again for a few moments and watches.

"It's probably just a walker," Glenn mutters, dropping back onto his knees and starting to curl up again.

"No," Tara insists. "It's not a walker."

"I think Glenn's right, any rustling or groaning noise you heard is just a walker stumbling through some shrubbery or something," Spencer whispers.

"It's not a walker," Tara mutters, anxiously fingering the hilt of her handgun. "It was moving too fast to be a walker."

"What did you hear?" Rosita asks.

"A rustling sound coming from over there," Tara explains, pointing at a patch of dark forest far off to their right. "But it was faint, like it's far away, and it was fast….like, faster than the foot-dragging pace of a walker."

"Probably just a critter then," Abraham says. "Rabbit or chipmunk or something."

Tara shakes her head, still watching the forest intently. "No, I don't think so. It moved too much shrubbery to be something small like that, it has to have more body mass."

"I think you're over analyzing this," Glenn mutters with a yawn. "You're getting paranoid because you're tired. Jesus Tara, I thought you were experienced. You should be used to pulling all-nighters," he teases.

Tara completely ignores him as she draws her gun and leans over the railing.

"Tara, relax, it's just a walker," Spencer says, but he also draws his gun as an extra step of precaution.

"Who's taking this one?" Rosita asks with a smile, seeming to have already dismissed the noise as a walker or Tara's imagination.

"I guess I should since I'm so far behind but….I don't want to," Glenn says with another yawn, resting his head on his knees and closing his eyes.

"I'll take it," Spencer offers, aiming his gun at the patch of forest Tara is staring down.

"Be careful," Tara mutters. "I don't think it's a walker."

"Relax, Tara. It's either a walker or maybe a forest animal," Rosita says, looking up at the sky and admiring the stars. "Nothing to worry about."

"It was moving too fast to be a walker an-shh! Do you hear that?!" Tara hisses.

A second bout of silence falls over everyone as they listen. It's almost completely silent besides the crickets in the forest chirping and the wind howling as it swoops by and tickles the shells of their ears….

And a sound of slight rustling of bushes emanating from the forest. Everyone turns their attention to it and stares for a moment. The sound gradually gets louder and louder as whatever is making the noise draws nearer and nearer.

"You're right, that's no walker," Abraham mutters, drawing his gun and aiming it by the forest. "Too much being moved too quickly."

"Do you think it's a person?" Glenn asks quietly, drawing himself up into a crouching position.

"That's my best guess," Abraham replies. "And I think we've all come to learn that the living pose a much more lethal threat than the dead."

Spencer feels a chill run down his spine at the words. "At least it only sounds like one person...one person taking on five heavily armed people with uphill advantage."

"But people typically aren't totally solo at this point," Glenn mutters. "They probably come from a camp of some sort."

The bushes start to frantically shiver as whoever is stumbling through them gets closer and closer to the opening between the gate and the other bit of forest across the dark street littered with decaying corpses.

"Do we say something?" Tara asks. "Alert them that we're here and armed? INstruct them to put their hands up now and come out where we can see them?"

"No, it might scare 'em off and then they'll run back to their homebase and tell their people about our little establishment here," Abraham mutters. "And if we're unlucky and the wrong kinda folk, they'll come back with more people and more guns. A planned armada attack from hell versus a single lost and clueless straggler."

"What if it's not like that?" Tara insists. "Remember how we tied Aaron up and questioned the hell outta him when he approached us and were convinced he was another lunatic out for blood? We were wrong. We could be wrong now and be about to shoot an innocent traveler."

"Better safe than sorry," Abraham replies. "One idiot that's dumb enough to wander around in the woods alone at night is more than worth everyone here's lives."

"Guys, relax...let's just see-" Rosita is cut off as the bushes seem to vomit up the figure responsible for their quaking. It's too dark for anyone to really see, the only light coming from the dim overhanging fixtures. Everyone freezes as a lithe, child-sized figure trips over a corpse's stiff arm, staggering a few feet before catching itself. The figure appears to be cloaked in a heavy black raincoat with the hood up, covering their face, and a pair of beat up hiking boots. Abraham's finger rests heavily on the trigger, as does Spencer's. Rosita quickly aims her gun and Glenn fumbles around with his in his holster in his haste to whip it out. However, Tara cautiously lowers her gun, squinting at the figure below her, trying to make out any predominate features.

"Guys. hold up!" She hisses, dropping her gun to her side and reaching over to yank on Spencer's arm to prevent him from shooting.

"Put your hands up!" Abraham yells suddenly, eyes transfixed on the figure. "Put your hands up and freeze if you don't want a skull full of lead! Now! Raise those hands nice and high!"

The figure stops, awkwardly catching it's balance and raises its arms above it's head. "Hey! Hey!" a weak, scratchy dry-throated voice yells up at them. "Don't shoot! Don't shoot, it's Enid!"

Abraham keeps his gun aimed, but Spencer automatically drops his gun and stares down at the figure with a look of foggy cognition on his face. "Enid?!" he yells, sounding ever so slightly surprised.

Enid rapidly nods, slowly lowering her hands to rest on the top of her head and languidly lowering her hood to reveal a familiar pale face caked in mud and splattered with blood. A pile of brown greasy strands of hair are pulled into a messy clump. She looks like she's been beaten down and dragged through fields of mud and weeds face-first. Her lips are so filthy and chapped that they look like cement and her hands are so scarred that they look like they're covered in several intersecting pattern tattoos that are so numerous and crowded that they can no longer be differentiated or deciphered.

Spencer lets out a small laugh and shakes his head. "You look like hell!" he shouts down to her before starting to hurry across the platform and down the flight of stairs leading to the ground. "You enter any beauty pageants lately?"

Enid rolls her eyes and drops her hands down to her sides with a her face pinched into a mixed look of irritation and relief. As usual, she's not up for Spencer's annoyingly lighthearted jokes that try too hard to penetrate the black cloud looming over her. It's irritating as hell to her because his quips don't make it through the dark haze she resides in, but instead bump into it with a thud, like a crow flying into a window, and fall dead at her feet, causing her immense irritation. Especially tonight when she hasn't had a drop of water to drink in a day, a marcol of food to eat in a week, or a shower in over a month. Her thunderous headache and slight anger over almost being gunned down combined with all of this don't help boost her tolerance of goofy bull shit. Alls she wants is for Spencer to open the fucking gate and let her in so that she can go home, drink 5 gallons water, eat an entire loaf of bread, and take a goddamn shower. But despite her annoyance and impatience….she's happy to see him again after so long and it's a little nice to see his smile and know he's relieved and happy to see her again. It's nice to feel like she's got a home and people who care for her to come back to….not that Enid will admit this to herself. It's easier to drown it all out and lock all those disgusting emotions away to avoid a mess when Doomsday strikes and leaves a mess.

"You were gone a really long time," Spencer muses aloud as he starts to unlatch the gate. "I was getting a little worried about you."

Something in Enid's chest flutters. Most people would call it affection but Enid duly concludes that it's an effect of her combined dehydration and exhaustion as she listens with anticipation to the heavy chains on the other side of the gate clink and clatter as they're released from their hold.

"Yeah," she mutters, closing her eyes momentarily as her vision starts to blur slightly and her temples throb.

"Everything go smoothly?" Spencer asks as he swings open the heavy gate with a loud creak.

"For the most part," Enid answers slowly, her dry tongue feeling like it's plastered to the roof of her mouth.

Spencer eyes her warily, her staggering and sickly appearance don't fly under his radar and he stays close to her in case she collapses. "I think we should take a trip to the infirmary," he suggests. "You seem to be dehydrated and those wounds on your hands probably should be cleaned out."

Enid shakes her head in protest. "I don't need to go to the infirmary. I can take care of myself, thanks."

"I really think you need some medical attention, Enid," Spencer replies, looking her over again with concern.

"He's right, you don't look so good," Tara says, leaning over the railing to listen to their rather one-sided conversation.

Enid rolls her eyes, causing her forehead to feel like it's being split down the center. "You didn't look too glamorous either when you showed up at the gate after being outside for months on end," she retorts. "I'm fine, I can clean myself up."

"You're clearly dehydrated, I think an IV is a good idea," Tara says, shaking her head. "You're limping too, maybe you broke something."

"Yeah, a quick check-up and an IV looks like it's sorely needed," Rosita agrees with a nod.

"And a check over for any bites or other wounds won't hurt," Abraham adds.

Enid groans, tripping over her own feet as her vision blurs and the sky and ground seem to collide and turn everything into a weird shade of maroon. Spencer lets out a little yelp of surprise, quickly reaching out to grab her and hold her up. She leans against him for a minute, closing her eyes and catching her breath.

"You ok?" Tara calls down, looking a little anxious as Spencer awkwardly hoists the limp body up over his right shoulder.

Enid lets out a grunt, humiliated, and grabs onto Spencer's back as he starts to carry her away. "I don't need to go to the infirmary," she huffs out, softly punching him in the back and glowering at the swirling shades of purple dancing around in her vision.

Spencer let's out a little chuckle. "You might be the second most stubborn person I know, only coming after my mom. You just almost fainted, you're going to the infirmary whether you like it or not."

Enid just weakly punches him again and drops her chin roughly onto his shoulder blade with a wince. She can barely see the platform now, it's growing smaller and smaller as Spencer keeps walking further and further away from it. She blushes when she sees 4 silhouettes leaning over the railing and looking down at her. She awkwardly coughs as the red creeps up her cheeks and down her neck. This is beyond humiliating, being carried away like a sick little kid who can't stand on her own two feet. She waves at them to show she's still conscious.

All four wave back.

Her cracked lips pull upwards, despite her best efforts to stop them.

"Good morning," Ron whispers, smiling, all teeth. It's a smile Michonne would call dorky and laugh at, but it's the best thing to wake up to in Carl's book.

"Morning," Carl replies with an equally dorky and toothy smile, pieces of grass sticking to his forehead. Ron snorts in amusement and snakes his free hand up from Carl's side to pick them off.

Both just lay still, smiling at each other and swimming through the heavy emotions in their heads leftover from last night. Neither goes to move despite the morning dew on the grass making them shiver and soaking through their jackets and both of their limbs starting to get pins and needles from being crushed and bent at odd angles. Neither wants to be the one to pull away because despite the discomfort, the proximity is rather enjoyable. Actually, it's pretty fucking awesome and neither want to lose the feel of the other's warmth or heartbeat hammering up against his torso.

"You sleep well?" Ron asks with a yawn, picking the last strand of grass off his companion's forehead.

"Yeah, fine. You?"

"Yeah."

"You're cheek looks worse today," Carl mutters, staring at the left side of Ron's face. It was just red yesterday; today it's swollen and a deep gray color. "Does it hurt?"

"Not too bad," Ron mutters, very aware of how bad his cheek must look since it FEELS rather puffy. "It's been way worse. This is nothing, don't worry about it."

Carl sighs sadly, looking at the swollen lump of flesh and cringing a little at the thought of it having been 'way worse before' as it already looks pretty bad and like it stings. He wonders how bad it's been, what's been the worst.

"How're your shoulders this morning?" He asks, remembering how they'd been hurting Ron last night.

"Ok, but starting to smart again a little," Ron mutters with another yawn, wrapping his arms tighter around Carl's midsection and closing his eyes. "It's fine," he mutters, feeling content despite the burning in his shoulders and throbbing of his cheek.

There's a comfortable stretch of silence between them in which Carl still finds his eyes drifting to the rather nasty looking bruise on Ron's cheek. His heart twists a little everytime he looks at it and he once again wonders morbidly what the worst has been. Ron says this is NOTHING, and it looks pretty bad; his whole left cheek is grey and swollen. What's the worst if this is nothing? A broken arm? Two broken arms? A concussion? A limb so badly bruised and marked up that it's a deep purple and looks mangled? Carl remembers how bruised and scarred up Ron's arms are and it makes his blood run cold. He looks at the asshat curled around him, sharing his body heat, that he loves so much and feels his heart ache a little. How bad are Ron's bruised up arms are in scheme of things to him. If his cheek's 'no big deal' are his arms also nothing? How awful does something have to be for it to be considered bad in Ron's book? Carl's a little hesitant to ask this obviously, as by asking he'd basically be asking Ron to tell him about the most painful and traumatizing thing that's ever happened to him. It's kind of a heavy question to spring on someone first thing in the morning.

"Hey….how awake are you?" Carl asks quietly.

"Awake enough to talk," Ron replies with a yawn.

Carl smiles, gazing up at the blazing sunrise sky. "You should look at the sky, it's amazing."

"The sight of the back of my eyelids is pretty satisfying right now."

Carl snorts and gives Ron's head a gentle push. "Just take a look, asshole. It's really beautiful, it looks like the sky is on fire."

Ron lazily opens one eye and looks up to the sky. "Whoa," he breathes, enthralled with the streaks of magenta and red that creep along the horizon, followed by the blazing orange ball, extinguishing the stars and chasing away the inky blackness.

"I told you," Carl murmurs, gazing up at the sky with wide eyes. "The sky never ceases to amaze me, you know? It's got so many different looks that all blow me away. THe starry night sky, the bright sunrises, the blue skies, puffy white clouds, swirls of grey, bright bolts of lightning. No matter what, the sky always manages to look amazing."

Ron nods, opening his other eye and turning his head to get a better look without untangling himself from his companion. "You're right. It always manages to look beautiful. It always has some element to captivate you with," he mutters, eyes sweeping across the sky, trying to take it all in.

They both lie there, watching with wide, tired eyes as the red streaks slowly start to turn orange, and the orange starts to turn pink, and the pink gets paler and paler as the sun creeps up higher and higher on the horizon. The blue seems to spills out of the pale pink and slowly spread across the sky, a few whippets of white clouds dotting along the blue.

"I haven't watched the sun rise in forever," Ron mutters. "I'm never awake for it."

"I've actually watched the sun rise a lot in the last few months out on the road," Carl whispers, as if afraid speaking too loudly will scare away the sun and send it careening back down over the horizon. "But every time I see it, it's even more beautiful. I never get sick of watching all the fiery colors crawl across the sky like watercolor paints being splattered over a canvas. It never gets old."

Ron smiles, finding Carl's infatuation with the sky kind of adorable. He slides his hands inside of the pouch on Carl's hoodie and nuzzles in closer as he shivers. Most people in his position would be miserable; cold, wet, grass sticking to the back of his neck, shoulders and face hurting, legs cramping from sleeping on the ground and being bent oddly, arm asleep. But Ron's far from miserable. The right things are perfect, so he's happy. He's over the moon.

Carl's happy too, despite the crappy wet grass and shivers. He loves being curled up with Ron like this, enveloped in him. It makes him feel….sorta secure and warm despite his shuddering. But he feels the question nagging at him again when he feels the swollen lump on Ron's cheek press up against his neck.

"Hey….Ron?" Carl asks after a few moments of silence.

"Yeah?"

"You remember that idea you had last night?"

"Uh….you mean the two questions a day deal?"

"Yeah."

"Yeah, of course," Ron says with a yawn. He won't say it aloud, but he remembers almost every second of last night in vivid detail. He believes it was a pinnacle in his life and refuses to let any part of it slip through his fingers and be forgotten.

"I wanna cash in my two questions for today, if that's like, ok," Carl says.

"Sure," Ron replies. He knows any questions Carl has to ask him will be about the abuse and he's pretty sure Carl knows any questions he has for him are about pre-Alexandria travels. It's not surprising and, honestly, who could blame them? Anyone would have a hell of a lot of questions for a child soldier who's survived hell and lived to tell the tale, but chooses not to, and a physically and verbally abused kid with more bruises and scars than an MMA fighter.

"You keep saying that your cheek doesn't hurt too much and that it's been way worse. Uh, your cheek actually looks pretty fucking bad, dude. So I'm just wondering….what's the worst it's been?" Carl asks, his voice faltering slightly as he knows it's a deep cutting question to ask at the ass crack of dawn.

Carl feels Ron stiffen, hands clenching the fabric of his hoodie and shoulders suddenly arching forward. There's a tense minute of silence before Ron starts to slowly drawl out his answer, like he's talking through a mouthful of peanut butter or sleep talking.

"Uh…..uh…." He stutters, eyes narrowing in concentration. It's hard to remember the WORST it's been. Ron admittedly buries some of the more….ahem, traumatizing incidents. Tries to forget about them and move on. It always makes him feel ill when he goes through that file cabinet of 'terrible things' in his brain and uncovers some of those memories. He tries to block them out, even though he's been told it's unhealthy. But those memories make him SICK. They make him dizzy and his lungs move too fast and everything seem unbearable and inane and dark. He remembers his guidance counselor in middle school saying something about 'emotional distress' a few times when he'd been called in. The term rings hollow in his head as he shifts through the 'terrible things' file.

"Uh….when I was nine," Ron starts, still muttering lowly, still clenching the fabric and body still arched forward defensively. "My dad bruised up my face pretty bad, gave me a black eye and broke my wrist."

"How?" Carl asks gently, knowing that Ron has more to say if he just draws him out….

"I knocked over the bookshelf in the living room. Made a huge mess. It was an accident," Ron mutters. "He stormed in and went ballistic. My mom...she got between us but he broke her nose and threw her aside. In the five seconds it took her to get up, he grabbed me and I struggled, henceforth the broken wrist, he hit me twice, yelled at me, and chucked me back against the wall. I smashed into it face first….fell on the floor and hit my head again. I think that was the worst because I was so fucking young…nine."

"That is really young," Carl agrees quietly, heart aching again at the thought of a 9 year-old being thrown around and ending up with a broken wrist. It makes him wonder how young Ron was when it all started. Before he can really even think, the question spills past his lips.

Ron continues to tense up, closing his eyes as he tries to remember the first time it happened. The first time his mom got beat, the first time he got hit, the first time he looked at his dad in fear. It's hard to recall it….it seems to be one of those things he's buried in hopes of never remembering again. How far back can he delve? He feels his head hurt a little as he thinks, his breathing becoming rapid and uneven.

"Uh…." he mutters, voice muffled as if he's holding a rag to his face. He feels distant, far away, like he's reliving it and walking back through his head in a foggy haze. "I must've only been 5 or 6….my dad was watching me…..I don't remember what I did to piss him off….but I did something obviously. He….he slapped me. Hard. I fell back on my ass. I remember looking up at him after he hit me, staring, wide eyed and confused. He flared his nostrils, still pissed, raised his hand to hit me again. I started….I think I started crying. His face softened and he lowered his hand, looked at me with watery eyes and looked, like, kinda guilty. Like, 'holy shit, I just did that'. He scooped me up off the floor, pressed a bag of frozen vegetables to my cheek, and kept telling me he was sorry and that it was 'our secret', that I couldn't tell mom. He sat me on the couch, let me watch Indiana Jones for the millionth time and let me have chocolate ice cream with whipped cream for dinner. That's the first time I remember being hit," Ron mutters.

"The first time he hit mom….at least that I can remember, I was around the same age. we'd been sitting at the kitchen table, eating dinner. I don't remember why he was pissed, but he started yelling. I'd been scared, shaking in my seat and watching my mom start to yell back at him. He eventually lost patience, got up and started throwing things….threw the phone and it's cradle, threw a few plates, threw the clock on the wall….mom was freaking out, screaming at him to stop, running around trying to grab things he was trying to throw. That's when he grabbed her by the forearms, dragged her a few feet despite her struggling, and smacked her….twice...three times….I think in the end it was six hits. I just watched, what the hell was I supposed to do? I was a kid….but I guess I should've picked the phone up off the floor and called 911, or ran to my neighbor's house to get help….but I just sat there, watching and shaking and I think I cried but I don't really remember…." Ron mumbles, eyes transfixed on the sky as he talks, not all there.

"So it's been going on awhile," Carl mutters.

Ron nods slowly. "Yeah, it's nothing new by any means. As long as I can think back this kinda stuffs been going on."

"How many times were you called into the guidance counselor's office?" Carl asks, forgetting that he's only supposed to ask two questions. He's too caught up swimming in the sesspool of memories. Too interested in exploring Ron's head, walking down memory lane...not as cheery as he'd wished at all, but kinda what he'd expected.

Ron answers anyway, also forgetting the 2 question rule. "Uh….I wanna say about 5."

"Why?"

"Well, there was that time in elementary school because of the drawings that I told you about last night. Then…..there was that time I came to school with a broken arm, and it was only a year after the art incident, so I was still on the radar I guess….I never got called into Child Resources though, thank fucking god….uh...middle school I took my jacket off in gym and they saw my arms...I got called in twice for that. And then I got called in once because I had a nervous breakdown of sorts in the cafeteria…."

"Was it, like, triggered or whatever?" Carl asks.

"I think so, but I'm still not positive of exactly what the fuck happened. The night before was the night my dad broke Sam's arm and I blamed myself….I still do...and my mom was all upset and talking about calling CPS and about how she failed us and apologizing to us for being a shit mother. I was on edge. I remember someone saying something to me about looking like shit or something and asking if I felt OK... Uh...the next thing I know I'm in the nurse's office because I passed out after screaming and yelling at some kid who was talking to me and attempting to run and push away the teacher who was trying to calm me down. Not sure what happened…" he lets out a little laugh.

"Uh….they sent me to the guidance counselor since I already, like, had a record or whatever. She said some shit about being under 'emotional distress', lectured me about being honest with her so that I could 'get the help I need', and tried talking to me about why I'd done what I'd done. She knew something wasn't right at home, but she couldn't really do anything without me making her accusations truth. I wasn't there very long, I kinda refused to talk much and she eventually released me, but told me to come see her every Friday around dismissal to 'have a chat'. I never showed up. Well….I did once. It was weird, we talked about my parents and how stuff is at home….my file was why she was concerned, but my file didn't have HALF of what was going on in it, just said my dad was an alcoholic and that i came from a stressful home….I just kinda pulled stories out of my ass to make it sound fine when I was there, but I mean...I did have A FEW good things to tell her that were real."

"Like what?" Carl asks, trying to find the light in it all. Any hint of a glimmer or any reason for the light in Ron's eyes.

"My dad made my mom dinner one night. He made a fucking mess in the kitchen, pots and pans all over the counters, but it was still the thought and effort that made my mom melt. And then…. My dad is a funny guy, he is when he's sober anyway. He makes good jokes and he's not afraid to poke fun at himself. And my mom has always been the sweetest person in my life….always going the extra mile just to make me and Sam happy. There's plenty of happy memories I have. It's not all bad….not even my memories of my dad…..although...they are warped, you know? Cuz of the way I see him? As a kid...I thought he was like a monster...staggering around, screaming and yelling and using his fists to resolve conflicts. It made me look at him differently."

Carl nods in understanding. "Why do you blame yourself so much?" he asks, reading into his friend's underlying tones of shame and guilt. "Every time something happens you seem to put all the blame on your own shoulders. Why?"

Ron's silent for a few moments before laughing under his breathe and slowly whispering: "Who else is there to blame?"

"Your dad. If I were in your shoes, I'd be pretty fucking hateful towards my dad. I'd be straight up wrathful actually. Or maybe I'd even hate alcohol. Or just….the world for my misery. Don't you hate other people for getting to be happy when you're suffering? Or do you hate the people for seeing your bruises and broken bones and not doing anything? Watching you drown and not so much as throwing a piece of driftwood for you?" Carl mutters, the fiery colors in the sky reminding him of internal hate fire, blazing brightly and crackling angrily at even the mention of certain people and instances.

Ron goes quiet again as he thinks. Does he hate the world? Hate everyone else? Hate his dad? Maybe even hate his mom a little for staying? Hate alcohol? Hate his guidance conselor for never growing a pair of balls and calling CPS or at least calling for a home inspection?

"Uh….I guess I go through stages where I'm just….full of raw rage, you know? Usually right after, I hate my dad. I hate him so fucking much. I want him to drink himself to death so he can't hurt anyone anymore, including himself. I want it to be over and I want to spit on his grave and set his clothes on fire in the backyard and throw all of the beer bottles out of the window and listen to the glass smash on the pavement," he admits, face contorting and his eyes burning a little with angry tears. "And sometimes I hate my mom….which is awful, she's the best guardian I've got and she loves me and takes good care of me but….sometimes I think she's a stupid bitch for staying with my dad. I realize it was probably for, like, financial support? I mean, being a hairdresser doesn't really make a profit compared to what a surgeon brings home. But still….we could've lived with her parents for a little bit or gone to those help houses or whatever….there were options. She just….she stayed and kept telling us and herself that she loved my dad and that she had it under control. I hate her for it sometimes, I want to tell her that it's not always smart to focus on the positive things...that even though he was sober yesterday and went to the store for her doesn't change the fact that he's broken her nose twice and terrorized her and her children. If she'd just left….my life could've been so much better. Sam's life could've been so much better if she'd just realized, the first time his fist came into contact with her face or the first time he belittled her or backed her into the corner and shook her, that it wasn't love. Love's not supposed to hurt like that…." Ron trails off, the angry tears continuing to build up, a few slipping onto the grey mass bulging out under his eye.

"Whatever though," he mutters with a sniff, wiping his face with his free hand. "I don't know shit about love though, right? Anyway, I swear I love my mom, but it makes me wonder how smart and self-respecting she is. And then, yeah, I fucking hated some of my classmates and even some of my friends. Just….listening to them talk about all these good things in their lives sometimes got to me. Which is stupid, I know, but…..this one kid in 5th grade, Jake Spinsky….his dad was a teacher at our school. I hated him. I hated him. So. Much. You know why? Because he got to eat in the teacher's lounge with his dad, talked to him between classes, rode home with him every day. That's why. I was seriously jealous of this kid. Wanna know the funny part? Jake was bullied all the goddamn time because he was with his dad all the time, always getting shoved around in the halls and having things thrown at him in class. He ate in the teacher's lounge because no one would let him sit at their table. But I was still jealous as fuck. I wanted that. I wanted what he had with his dad."

"That's understandable," Carl mutters with a little laugh. "I hate the people here sometimes. I get jealous of stupid stuff they have and the problems they don't have. I get it."

A tiny smile works its way onto Ron's face. "I hate the people here sometimes too and get jealous," he admits. "But...you're asking if I hate all these people, my dad, my old classmates, my friends, the world….yeah, from time to time I have immense hatred. But 90% of my hate and anger is at myself."

"Why?" Carl asks in confusion. "How the hell can any of this possibly be your fault. You were being logical when you said sometimes you hate your mom and I understand completley why you'd hate your dad, but why yourself?"

"I can't control my dad. I can't make choices for him. I can't control my mom or make choices for her. I can't control the guidance counselor or any of the other adults who had a clue and make choices for them. But I can control myself and I can make my own choices," Ron mutters slowly. "I can choose to do the right thing and I can choose to get help. I can choose. But I never do."

"Ron, you can't fix it yourself," Carl murmurs sadly, feeling his stomach drop a little as he feels something warm dripping onto his neck.

"But I can. Well...now with the world ending and everything I can't. But I had several opportunities to before. Like….during any given one of my dad's outburst I could've picked up the phone and called 911 or ran to a neighbor to get help. I was in the guidance counselor's office all those times. If I'd just said something….if I hadn't lied just to keep my mom happy. If I'd said something to any of my teachers….they'd kinda HAVE to call CPS then, right? Sam with my neighbors, if I'd told one of them they'd feel morally obligated and shit. I had so many chances to get me and my brother and mom away. I'm a hypocrite for calling my mom stupid and bashing her for not getting help, because i never did either. And you know why I didn't? Because I was scared. I was too scared to. I was scared of change, scared of how my mom would react, scared of what would happen to my dad, scared of the consequences. So I just kept silent. I'm just as bad as everyone I hate."

"No one should feel afraid of the consequences of getting help," Carl says, turning his head to the side to make eye contact. "No one."

Ron swallows and shakes his head. "I was. I felt like I had no control over anything, I still don't really. I….I was just scared. I was scared because I'm a coward."

Before Carl can open his mouth to correct Ron and inform his self-degrading ass that he is NOT a coward and that he's actually a rather courageous person, Ron cuts him off, seeming to know Carl too well and know where he's going. Ron appreciates his friend's kindness, but he really doesn't see himself as brave at all.

"I'm a coward," he says again, a little louder. "I know it and I admit it, even though it kills me every day. I am, don't say otherwise. I watch my mom get hit and don't do anything. I watch my mom cry and don't do anything. I watch my dad corner my mom and belittle her, make her so fucking small and I don't do anything. I get hit myself and I lay down and die at his feet. I watch him wreck things and just stand by. No one with even a single brave bone in their body would stand by or just die. They'd fucking fight back or go get help or at least TRY. I just bury my head in the sand and wait for the hurricane to blow over, but you know what? It never will, so I've basically just buried myself to wait until I suffocate while everyone above me screams and cries and suffers. I'm a coward," Ron spats, voice edged sharply in anger. It kills Carl a little to know that all this sudden venomous anger is used as ammo for self-inflicted injuries.

There's a moment of silence between them before Ron lists every single instance in his life that leads him to the conclusion that he's a coward. He tells Carl everything, every shameful story he can remember. Every memory that makes him feel like a fucking goat. Every one he can remember. He word vomits them out left and right.

He tells about the time he locked himself in the bathroom to stay safe while his mom was screaming in the family room. He tells him about the time he picked on Jake in the hallway and called him a 'daddy's boy' and mocked him. He tells him about the time his dad broke Sam's arm because Ron failed to keep his grip on him. He talks about every time he failed to get his dad away from his mom, despite his best efforts. He talks about the time he ran out of the house the second he walked in the front door from school because he heard yelling. He spends almost an hour talking about the time his mom ranted about calling CPS and apologized for being an awful mother and down talked herself. He cries a little bit when he talks about the time his mom ended up with a broken arm while he was over at a friend's house. He talks about each of his guidance conselor visits in detail. He cries again when talking about the time his mom ended up with a broken nose defending him. He grows angry again when talking about every instance of an adult asking about a strange bruise or broken bone. He gets sad again when talking about every time he's watched his mom get backed into a corner and shaken without interfering. He talks about every time he's made his mom cry, either by displaying his injuries or by talking about his feelings or just telling what he thought was an innocent story. He talks about the time he accidentally cried in front of his mom and made her cry. He cries for a third time when he talks about the time he laid on the floor with his head spinning and a dislocated shoulder listened to his mom's sobbing. He mentions all the good times he had with his dad with a wistful smile, including a fishing trip and a midnight snack session of muffins and Star Trek reruns. He talks about the time he and Sam hid in the basement and the time Sam asked him 'does dad love us?' with wide eyes of fear and uncertainty. He talks about the verbal abuse too, all the belittling and degradation. He talks about all the times he hear his mom crying and just block it out and all the times he'd try to do something but fail and end up with more bruises that would only further distress his mother.

As he goes on and on, Carl keeps his arms around his shoulders and holds him close, letting him keep his face pressed to his neck. He doesn't let him go to drown in his memories and miseries. He doesn't dare interrupt, just letting it continue to flow from Ron's head. He doesn't want to curb that flow, he has a feeling it's been pent up far too long already. Ron talks and talks until his mouth is dry and his mind empty.

When he's done the sun has fully risen and sits in the middle of the blue ocean, hidden by a few whippets of white. They lay in silence after he's done, both thinking. Ron wonders how pathetic and whiny he sounds, wonders if he just sounded like the 'faggot' his dad always tells him he is and proved his point that he's a fucking coward. He wonders if Carl will be honest with him and agree that he's a fuck-up, a disappointment, a coward, and a mess. He knows he is, there's no need to spare his feelings. He's known he is for a long time, not that he really needed to FIGURE anything out, his dad told him everyday and his mom's tears and bruises screamed it at him. He almost wishes he could take it all back, just to avoid looking so pathetic and weak. But….it feels kinda good too. Just to talk it all out and have someone listen and not interrupt. Just to spill out everything that kills you every time you look in the mirror or remember you're alive and you're you.

Carl's mindset is rather different. He processes everything he's heard, reruns the stories in his head again and again like a movie. A really, really sad movie that makes his heart ache horribly. He has no idea HOW Ron can possibly see himself as a coward. He's lived through so much and been put down so many times and tried so hard, even putting his well being on the line in the process, to try and fix things. He's jumped in to try and save his mom, he's lied and kept things to himself for her and his brother's sake. He's suffered in silence and swallowed his anger and emotions for everyone else. Instead of directing his anger at the people who hurt him, he uses his anger to hurt himself. Carl doesn't see a coward, he sees a beaten down boy with seriously traumatizing events playing behind his eyes and crippling him.

"If you're a coward," Carl says slowly, breaking the silence. "You're the bravest coward I know."

Ron looks at him, eyes still bloodshot from crying, looking skeptical. "Then you must not know many cowards," he croaks out, throat dry.

"You'd be surprised at how many cowards I've met," Carl mutters, running his fingers up through Ron's hair. "The end of the world kinda has a way of making the cowards stick out like a sore thumb. Trust me, I've met a lot. You're not one of them."

"Carl, how do you not get this? You just listened to me talk about how I can NEVER protect my mom and how I just get my ass kicked and how, sometimes, I just drown it out. You just listened to me tell you about how I've kept my mouth shut in fear, despite everyone's well being. I'm a fucking coward, man," Ron says, sounding slightly angry and lifting his head off of Carl's chest to glare down at him.

Carl stares at him for a moment before shaking his head. "I just listened to you tell me about how you almost always try to stand up for your mom, even though you KNOW it'll just end in your pain. I just listened to you talk about how it hurts you so fucking bad that you shut down and how you kept suffering in silence because you were afraid of upsetting your mom and getting your dad in trouble...it was a consideration thing. I listened to you talk about how you look out for Sam, ALL THE TIME! His arm being broken wasn't your fault! You always protect him first. You try to protect your mom, you try to fix everything and….the hate you have for yourself? You don't hate your dad, even though he hurts you and your mom. You don't hate your mom even though she lets it go on. You don't hate just decide to hate the world ever. No, you hate yourself, you blame yourself. That tells me you're a strong person. It's so easy to hate, but you just….internalize the shit out of it! You're a strong person! You're NOT a coward man! You're saying what you just told me justifies you as a coward?! No way! It actually makes me think you're even more brave and independent and kind hearted and strong than I thought you were before!" Carl exclaims, slowly sitting up to get on eye level with his friend.

Ron stares blankly at his friend for a minute, noticing how almost...livid Carl looks. Before he can speak though, Carl jumps back in.

"You've got enough things putting you down, man. You're dad does it everyday, physically and verbally. Don't bog yourself down too! Don't put yourself down! You have so much beating on you already; your dad, fear for your mom and brother's safety, guilt over your mom's tears and bruises, so much shit putting you down. You don't need to do it to yourself," he says, shaking his head. "You're the bravest coward I know. It takes bravery to fight even when you know you're gonna lose, it takes guts to still stand up every day knowing you're gonna be beaten down, it takes balls to swallow it all down and strength to keep from throwing it all at someone else. You're not a fucking coward."

Ron stares at him again for a few minutes. He knows Carl means what he's saying, he's not patronizing him. He looks way too ardent to be faking this. He means it, dammit.

"You…" Ron mutters, feeling like he's distant again, his voice coming from thousands of miles away. "You mean it?" he murmurs, eyes getting glassy again despite his rapid blinking. His cheeks turn red in shame.

"Yeah," Carl says with a firm nod, feeling his heart twist again. Each time Ron cries it kills him a little on the inside, especially since he seems so ashamed of it. "Like I said, you're the bravest coward I know."

Ron's eyes dart up then back down and his lips quiver, but manage to stretch into a sad shaky smile as he wipes at his eyes and nods. "Ok," he mutters. "Ok." He flops back onto his back and loudly exhales, gazing up at the sky. The insecurities seem to disappear, leaving him feeling rather relieved, like a fucking elephant just got off his chest.

Carl smiles and flops down beside him. He looks over at Ron, seeing him smiling with tears freely running down his face as his eyes drift closed. "Hey," he mutters, reaching over and brushing his fingertips over Ron's shoulder. "Hey."

Ron just laughs breathlessly, feeling like a little part of him has died but another part has been freed and yet another part has been reborn. It's exhilarating and bizarre and it makes his stomach clench.

"How did two questions become me making an autobiography?" he asks with a laugh.

"You didn't have to stay," Enid grumbles as she laces up her boots.

"Not like I had anything better to do," Spencer replies, leaning in the doorway. "Besides, you looked lonely lying on the big, uncomfortable examination table with an IV stuck in your arm and your hands splayed out, throbbing from their little scrub down and new stitches. Couldn't just leave you alone."

Enid doesn't reply, that fluttering feeling flaring in her chest again. She draws a blank on the cause, as she's now feeling fine besides the annoyance biting at her insides like a swarm of mosquitos. She sighs, her knees creaking as she hops to her feet. Exhaustion sweeps over her again and she has to hold the back of the chair to keep her balance. Spencer makes a move to catch her, but backs off when she sends a glare his way. She wants to go to bed and hibernate for days and days, sleeping in a nest of clean sheets and fluffy pillows.

She'd never admit it out loud, but she's fucking thankful for her trip to the infirmary. The night-shift doctor, Denis, took one look at her and mouthed 'holy mother of god' before sweeping her out of Spencer's arms, setting her on the examination table, sticking an IV in her arm and disinfecting all the open scratches and wounds on her hands and stitching them up. For the two hours that the IV was in her arm, she endured Spencer's company. He sat in a chair next to the table, eyeing her with a look of concern, and continuously asking Denis questions about how long the IV would be in and how it worked. While Denis was stitching her up he'd noticed her wincing and had offered to hold her opposite hand. Enid made it VERY clear that she didn't need his hand to hold.

After the IV came out and Denis let her go take a shower in the infirmary bathroom, he'd ran to her house to fetch her clean clothes and brought her back a strawberry Pop Tart, a baloney sandwich, and a can of Dr Pepper along with a comfy pair of sweats. When Denis cleaned out and stitched up any other open wounds on her legs or torso, Spencer once again offered to hold her hand, despite her venomous reaction to his last offer. He'd left the room during her full-body examination and let her use his jacket as a blanket when she got cold while the IV was in her arm. He stayed with her all night, leaned in the doorway or slumped over in the chair, trying to strike up a conversation. Most of them had fallen flat due to Enid's typical demeanor and exhaustion, but every once in awhile Spencer would bring up a topic of her interest and she'd engage.

Spencer's a nice guy. Enid knows this, and secretly appreciates it. But she hates it. She hates the nice people. Because it's the nice people you get attached to and the nice people that leave the deepest wounds.

"You should go rest up," Denis says as she hands Enid a bottle of painkillers. "I'm exhausted from being up all night so I know you must be dead on your feet from traveling so far and not getting enough sleep for weeks. Take a pill if the aches get too bad, but no more than two every six hours."

Enid nods and thanks her before following Spencer out the door. He walks her home, much to her annoyance and admiration.

"Go get some sleep," he says with a gentle pat on the back and a smile. "You need it. It's good to have you back, Enid."

Enid loses the fight to keep the smile off her face for the second time in 24 hours. "Thanks. Nice to see you again too. And….thanks for staying. I haven't had a sleepover in a long time."

Spencer grins. "Neither have I. It was fun, especially the pillow fight and the game of Truth or Dare that was really 'tell me who you like or perform a bizarre semi-sexual act'. Really fun, really fun."

Enid lets out a little laugh and nods. "I think my favorite part was when we watched 'Pretty in Pink' and ate a whole bag of popcorn."

Spencer laughs and gives her another pat on the back. "Yeah, we'll have to do it again some time."

"Hey, you said...you said something about a big run today?" Enid asks, recalling one of the four million conversations Spencer tried to kick start last night.

Spencer nods with a yawn. "Yeah, we leave in an hour…..I might not go, I'm bushed and everyone else who's going went to bed at 6 AM when night shift let off and has gotten at least 5 hours of sleep now. So….I might throw the offer to Aiden. There's no way he won't pounce on the offer to lead the run."

Enid feels her eyes grow wide and something like guilt pang in her chest. "Wait….lead the run? You were supposed to lead the run?"

Spencer nonchalantly nods, like it's no big deal. "Yeah, we're going to this warehouse to find micro inverters to fix the power grid. Eugene kinda orchestrated the whole thing, so I guess you could say he's leading the run, even though he's not thrilled to be going. But yeah, I'm driving the van and all….but I'm so tired, I won't really be of much use and could end up getting myself killed so…..probably for the best if I let Aiden go. I think my life is worth listening to his gloating."

Enid frowns and awkwardly clears her throat. "I'm really sorry."

"Why are you sorry?" Spencer asks, looking genuinely confused.

"You'd be rested up and ready to go kick ass if you hadn't stayed up all night with me."

Spencer laughs and waves it off. "It's fine, there'll be other runs. I've lead three other ones before anyway, no big deal. I enjoyed last night, I had fun."

"Yep, nothing more fun than sitting in a cold infirmary for three hours with nothing to do but try to engage in conversation with a dehydrated and exhausted zombie girl who smelt like roadkill for half the night," Enid deadpans.

"Hey, don't forget about our Disney movie marathon and the fort we built. That was good quality shit, ok?" Spencer jokes, trying to lighten the mood, as always. "Go get some sleep. It's been a long night and you've been on the move for a really long time, I think a clean and comfy bed is going to leave your mind blown."

"What I really missed was indoor plumbing," Enid replies as she opens the door.

Spencer chuckles. "Yeah, that's reasonable. How about toiletries?"

"Right now toilet paper and soap are like the best things on this miserable planet other than the air I breathe."

Spencer laughs. "Yeah, that's what I always missed the most while on runs. Well….that and privacy….anyway, see you around."

Enid barely manages to bite back her smile and nods, stepping into the wonderfully air-conditioned house and closing the door behind her with a soft click. Since she's a loner, no family, she lives in the tiniest house; only one floor with a kitchen, family room, one bathroom, and two bedrooms. It doesn't bother her at all, she thinks it's fair and she's rarely home anyway.

Enid yawns, rubbing at her eyes and starting to walk down the hall, her legs starting to shake and threatening to give out. Her eyes fall on the familiar sight of the worn in and smiles at how much more comfortable and soothing this is than sleeping on the dirty floor of an abandoned apartment to the sound of groaning and scratching seeping through the walls. She closes her eyes and is about to drift off…..when there's a knock on the front door.

Enid curses under her breathe and rolls over, not intending to answer it. It's probably not nearly as important as her getting some shut eye. She tries to drift off, but the knocking continues. She curses again, louder this time, and hauls herself to her feet and hurries down the hallway.

"What?" She mutters, her voice coming out as more of a growl than she intended for it to as she swings open the door.

"Uh, sorry, Enid," Spencer says sheepishly, taking note of her disheveled hair and assuming she'd just gotten comfortable in her bed and was about to doze off. "I just remembered I forgot to give these back to you," he explains, handing her a plastic Walmart bag full of freshly washed clothes.

"Oh, thanks," She mutters, her anger drying up on the spot as she looks in the bag and is greeted by the overwhelming, eye-watering scent of lilacs. "You didn't have to wash them."

Spencer shrugs. "Kinda felt like I should. When you showered last night, Denis put your clothes in a bag and they looked gross and smelled pretty damn nasty, so when I went to pick up a fresh set of clothes for you, I threw them in the wash. I brought them back with me to the infirmary, but it just slipped my mind to give them back to you until now. Sorry."

"No need to apologize. Thanks a lot," she says, feeling an honest sense of gratitude.

"No problem," Spencer says with a breezy smile, already starting to back down from the porch stoop. "Sorry for waking you up, go on and rest up."

"You too," Enid mutters, closing the door and looking down at the bag of clothes. She shuffles back into the family room, flops down on the couch, and empties the bag's contents on her lap. Yesterday night, her black rain coat and jacket had been smeared in blood and muck, her white socks had been a dark brown, soaked with mud. Her shirt had been so soaked in sweat it looked like she'd jumped in a lake while wearing it and her pants were caked in sludge. Every article of clothing smelled like skunk, blood, and festering wounds. But now they're all clean again, almost good as new and smelling like a Field of flowers. The only imperfection is that the socks are no longer white but an off ivory color, but that's totally ok with Enid. She's beyond thankful that Spencer took the time to wash her clothes on top of everything else he's done for her.

He's such a nice guy. She hates it.

Her eyelids feel impossibly heavy and droop down as she lets out a yawn. She pushes her clean clothes to her side, wraps herself back up in the blanket, and closes her eyes again. She's so tired at this point that she's quivering and her eyes hurt when they're open.

When there's another knock on the door a few moments later, the only word that comes to her mind is 'fuck'. She squeezes her eyes shut to block out the noise and curses. There's no way in hell she's going to answer it this time. No way. The door knocking is not nearly enough for her to get up. Christ, the fucking house bursting into flame isn't at the moment. She flinches in annoyance each time she hears a knock, swearing that whoever it is has a death wish. When it eventually stops after what feels like forever, a content smile spreads across her lips….until she hears a thud in the hallway.

"The fuck…." she mutters, her blood boiling in anger as she throws the blanket off of herself and storms down the hallway. Usually being woken from a nap wouldn't piss her off so much, but considering she was up all last night and hasn't gotten adequate sleep in over a month….

She goes to throw open the door when she sees a package lying on the floor. It's lying right by the old wooden cat door flap, someone must've pushed it in through there. Enid stares at the parcel in confusion for a few moments before squating beside it and examining it. It's a plain brown box, nothing's written on it or anything, and it's taped closed along the seam with grey duct tape.

She carries the box back into the family room with her, and takes notice to how heavy it is. She sits on the sofa and starts to peel the tape off with shaking fingers. Her teeth start to chatter and her eyes water because she's so goddamn tired, but curiosity's got her by the balls as she continues struggling to peel away the duct tape. With a few curses and chipped nails she manages to get it off and open the box.

"What?" she mutters, peering into it.

It's crammed full of envelopes with her name written on them in crappy cursive.

She stares at them blankly for a moment. Why the hell would someone waste their time writing hundreds of letters to her when she lives in a small and enclosed community with them? Why not just walk down the street and talk to her?!

"What?" she whispers again, wiping the tears of exhaustion off her cheeks and picking out an envelope to open. She pulls out the piece of stationery paper that's folded over sloppily and stuffed inside to read:

There's this girl who lives on my block

She's got something that gives me a shock

Everytime I see her around

I feel like a part of me has drowned

But she doesn't seem to be affected by this emotional merry-go-round

She keeps it cool with her Vans and Vinyl tracks

Sometimes she lets me listen to them with her in her bedroom and lists all these facts

About life and death that've got me coming back

Every day just to see her

Every day just to be her

Every day just to know a part of me knows her

But I'm gonna put it on the line

And say I wanna call this girl mine

Enid rereads the poem seven times. She's certain her sleep-deprived mind is misinterpreting this letter...it has to be! If she didn't know any better she'd say this poem is someone's way of admitting their feelings to her. If she didn't know any better she'd say this poem means somebody LOVES her.

She blindly reaches back into the box to grab a second envelope, her head awhirl in overdrive confusion.

Dear Enid,

I feel like I don't tell you this enough when I see you, but I really like you. Wait, I NEVER say that when I'm around you cuz I'm afraid you'll kick my ass. Ok, never mind. But I do REALLY like you. I like just about everything about you. I like your eyes and your hair. I like how you smell, even when you're all sweaty and stuff. I like how you're cool and collected but how you can be spontaneous and funny around the right people. I love how brave and adventerous you are, you're no annoying-as-shit damsel in distress who waits for someone else to save them, you kick ass yourself. I like how you carry yourself and how you're a good listener. I love those rare moments when you cry too. Not that I like you being sad, of course not! I just like seeing you as human sometimes instead of a kick-ass ninja soldier warrior thing. You're pretty when you cry too, your tears look like little diamonds nuzzled in your eyelashes and dotting along your cheeks. You're pretty when you're happy too, you've got the best smile. I like everything about you. I wouldn't change a thing, even if I could. Well….one thing. I'd make you fall in love with me, but that's the only thing I'd change.

-Mikey

"Mik?" She mutters, her world's rotation pausing, heart stopping in her chest. "Mik?"

She's in total shock. Mikey?! Mikey loves her?! Her friend MIkey?! Mike?! She'd never guess in a million years….well...maybe.

Mik always made sure to stop her to talk, no matter what he was in the middle of doing. And he'd always hung out with her more than Ron had. He'd never gotten pissed or impatient with her for being moody or distant. He'd been an amazing friend, even when she was sub par. He always made offers to hang out, even when she declined 9 out of 10 of them. But….they'd gotten close over time. They'd bonded. Some of the things they bonded over were stupid but fun things they have in common, like Mortal Kombat (which they'd played for 3 hours straight one time in Mikey's basement) and their obsession with Lord of the Rings (one night Mikey slept over so that they could watch all 3 movies back-to-back) and their love of ice cream (sometimes Enid would get a carton of mint chocolate chip, which was both of their favorites, before headed to his place to hang out)

But other things they bonded over were more meaningful and actually about their differences. Mik's never lost anyone like Enid has. He still lives with both his parents and his brother. He still has his family. He doesn't understand the sad aura around her. Doesn't speak the language. Her pain is foreign to him and it makes her all the more interesting and exotic to him. Enid rarely opens up about what she went through before Alexandria. Actually the only people she's really told about her parents are Deanna, a little to Ron, and Carl. But….Mik's a good listener. On the rare occasion that Enid does want to talk, he listens. And she loves the empathy that practically oozes out of him. Loves the way he looks at her like she's brave and strong. The look of awe in his eyes. And she knows he likes the way she stares at him like he's foreign too since he's happy. Since he's talkative and bright and fun. He's like a strobe light and she's fascinated, and she's like a tiger and he can't take his eyes off her as she paces around her enclosure.

Her head spins with the thought of him wanting to be WITH her that way. The thought of him kissing her and holding her hand and calling her shit like 'babe' and 'sweetheart'...the thought of him WANTING that. And it makes her wonder, does she WANT that too? She likes him, sure, but does she really like him LIKE him? She's never thought about it, never seen him in that light. He was a kindred spirit to her, someone who was so different from her, so much more extroverted and easygoing but still had managed to fit into her agenda. It confuses her so much...there's a twister in her head and a hurricane in her stomach as she opens another envelope with mixed emotions of dread and that weird feeling in her chest again.

"My mom told me to be back by sunrise," Ron says as he and Carl sit on Carl's front porch, eating bowls of cereal, still wearing their damp and grassy clothes they slept in. "It's now noon. I'm a deadman when I get home."

Carl snorts. "Want me to write your obituary?"

Ron gives him a little shove but smiles as he chews on soggy corn flakes. "Shut up," he mutters affectionately.

Carl smiles over at him and can't help but think that he looks so sweet. Sitting there smiling like a goofball with milk dripping down his chin and laughter vibrating in his throat, pieces of grass stuck in his messy hair and to his neck, all damp with sweat and morning dew. Eyes still red from crying and lack of sleep, bags under them like thick messy eyeliner.

There's a few minutes of silence as they both eat their cereal and smile at one another. Ron breaks eye contact first, sheepishly smiling down at the half-eaten bowl of cornflakes in his lap.

"I haven't thanked you yet," he mutters.

"You don't need to thank me," Carl replies softly.

"Yeah, I kinda do. I'm a mess….as you've figured out already I assume. And...thanks for listening to my ravings this morning and just letting me….you know, get it all out."

Carl smiles and shakes his head. "You didn't rave this morning….you talked. And….I know you better now. I feel honored that you, like, trust me enough to replay all of that upheaval to me."

Ron smiles sadly at his lap again. "I haven't ever really talked about it before. I've never had someone I trust enough before. I've felt scared talking to anyone else about it, felt like I was either being cornered and forced to talk or totally ignored and screaming out for help with nobody caring. But….I talked to you. I fucking made my autobiography for you this morning with no problems. I wish you'd came into my life sooner. I'm not forced with you and I'm not ignored. And...you, like, care."

"Why wouldn't I care? You're my best friend, I know you've got things in your head….complicated and scary things that are eating you alive," Carl says. "You just needed to get them out in the worst way."

"I honestly was a little scared you'd think I was pathetic," Ron admits. "I always think I am so I guess I just assumed you would too. I always think everyone looks at me and thinks I'm a coward who can't make a difference."

"You're the bravest coward I know and you've made a big difference in my life for someone who can't make any," Carl says sincerely, looking over at him with a meaningful look that chases any lingering self doubt in Ron's being away.


	10. Stupid Kids Who Suck at Hugs

DISCLAIMER: I'm not Robert Kirkman, I'm a 15 year-old jackass who thinks she's way cooler than she is.

WARNING: THIS FIC FROM HERE ON OUT HAS MAJOR SPOILERS THAT ARE CANON FROM SEASON 5-6, DO NOT READ UNLESS YOU ARE CAUGHT UP TO THIS POINT IN THE TELEVISION SERIES OR ARE OK WITH HAVING IT SPOILED! I'M NOT RESPONSIBLE PAST THIS POINT IF YOU RUIN IT FOR YOURSELF.  
-

Long after the cereal is devoured, all of it, even the soggy pieces sticking stubbornly to the sides of the bowl like spongy leeches, the two boys continue to sit on the porch and waste the rest of the day. It's actually quite pleasant to just lounge on the porch, leaning against one another and alternating comfortably between dozing and chattering inanely, staying away from any topics too heavy after the morning's gut-spilling session. It's enjoyable, and Carl hasn't really experienced such a lazy day like this in a long time.

"Why is the sky blue?" Ron asks quietly, sleepily rubbing at his eyes and yawning. "Like, why the fuck is it blue? Why not...a cool fiery Doomsday red? Why blue, you know?"

"Because…." Carl drawls, gears in his head turning in hopes of coming up with a really snarky answer that bites. "Because….that's just a cool color."

Ron snorts. "A cool color?" he mocks. "That's all you can come up with? No accurate sciency answer or at least creative sarcastic answer? That's it? It's a cool color?"

"I'm tired. Crack a science book or make up a smart ass answer yourself," Carl replies with a drawn out yawn, letting his heavy eyelids droop down and leaning more heavily against his friend.

Ron smiles as they drift into another little bout of silence. He takes in a deep breath, chest feeling significantly lighter since this morning, and closes his own eyes.

The silence only lasts a few minutes before tires screeching and the clashing of the main gate being thrown opened slice through it like a knife through flesh. It makes both boys jump in surprise, but they quickly relax as they realize it's just a run group arriving back. They giggle a little, looking at each other with huge 'aren't we stupid' smiles before starting to drift off again, ignorantly assuming nothing is out of order..

Their peace only resumes for a moment more before they hear screaming and shouting by the main gate.

"What the hell is going on?" Carl mutters, slowly opening his eyes and pulling himself up to his feet. He looks in the direction of the main gate with a look concern and bewilderment on his face, trying to make sense of the sudden noise with his fuzzy sleep deprived mind.

"I dunno," Ron replies, also standing up. He's about to suggest they go check it out when they spot a two people sprinting away from the main gate with looks of morbid seriousness, shouting to one another about 'it' being back by the showers. Ron and Carl only waste a second to glance at each other before hurriedly making their way towards the commotion.

As they get closer and closer to the gate the shouts and yells slowly develop from blurbs of noise to distinguishable vowels and consonants strung together. 'Hurry up! Hurry, please! She's gonna bleed out, fuck, hurry!' and 'What the hell happened?!' and 'Where is he? Where is he?' and 'Oh my god….O-oh my god, please….'

When Ron and Carl approach the main gate the first thing they see is the run van, it's sides smeared with blood and claw marks. It looks like it's driven down Route 666 and barely made it back to tell the tale.

The second thing that catches their attention is Glenn yelling and waving his arms around like a conductor, directing this symphony of madness and confusion. He keeps hurriedly shouting for someone to go get a doctor, go get a doctor, please, go get a doctor before she bleeds out.

The third thing they spot is Eugene, awkwardly leaning in through the open trunk doors of the van, his upper half completely inside. The notice a few passersby stopping to gawk. A small crowd forms around the beat-up van, people trickling in like water from a leaky faucet. As the number of people huddled around increases, the volume steadily grows until the soft murmur becomes a roar of voices and shouting.

"What's going on?!" Carl shouts. No one answers him.

The two people Ron and Carl spotted earlier swiftly cut through the thick crowd, carrying a bright green gurney. Carl feels his heart stop when his eyes land on it. Ron looks over at him in concern. He's never been in a situation like these, never been through a run-gone-bad, but he knows that gurneys are never a good thing.

The people set the gurney on the ground beside the van, almost directly under the bumper, and start trying to get Eugene to move.

"Careful! Careful!" He snaps as the shove him aside and start to grab at whatever he was holding in his arms. Blood speckles across his pale arms. "If you don't pick her up right she'll hemorrhage, careful!"

Its then that Maggie starts running through the dense crowd, shouting for Glenn at the top of her lungs. Her eyes are wide and filled with fear. Glenn spots her and stares, his mess of sweaty hair sticking to his face and his eyes looking watery. Maggie rushes up to him, running so fast she could give Jesse Owens a run for his money, and pulls him into a tight embrace.

Glenn goes semi-catatonic in her arms, not hugging back and suddenly ceasing to shout for help. He goes eerily silent before shaking his head, a few tears winding down his blood covered cheeks.

"What's with all the commotion?" Rick loudly asks, stepping into the small clearing around the van. "What's goin' on?"

He doesn't really receive an answer, Glenn crying into his wife's shoulder and Eugene snapping at the two people trying to hoist something out of the back of the van.

The people start to shuffle away from the van, a limp body being carried between them, one holding the hips and thighs, the other holding the shoulders and keeping the head, wrapped up in a bloody turban that looks like Eugene's jacket. It takes Carl a few seconds to process that the limp person with the grave looking head injury is Tara.

"Careful!" Eugene snaps again as they slowly lower her still form onto the gurney. They hurriedly strap her in before they each grab an end and start rushing away to the infirmary, Eugene jogging along beside them looking sickly anxious.

"Was that….was that Tara?" Ron asks, looking shocked, squinting as if trying to see through a guise.

Carl numbly nods and watches Glenn cry, feeling his gut twist. Glenn is more emotional than most at this point, but he's not easy to break. He's strong, flexible, adaptable. Carl hasn't seen him cry since the farm, so he knows something seriously awful must've happened.

Rick knows this too as he watches his comrade cry. He looks around at the crowd of spectators, hoping for some answers, but no one really knows what the hell is going on besides the sobbing Asian.

"What's going on?!" Deanna bellows, making her way through the crowd. She briskly strides over to the van, looking at Rick for answers. He shakes his head, signifying that he's just as lost and uninformed as she is.

Deanna scans the crowd, looking for her youngest child. He was on the run, he'll know what's going on. "Aiden?" she shouts, looking through the sea of scared and confused faces. "Aiden?"

There's a rattling in the van as Nicholas slowly crawls out on all fours and drops down onto the cement. He looks disoriented and lost, a swollen egg on his forehead and his arms shaking as he struggles to hold himself up. Deanna looks down at him briefly, trying to asses whether or not he's lucid enough to get answers from. Her answer comes in the form of Nicholas black out.

"Where's my son?" Deanna shouts, now looking back at the crowd. "Aiden? Has anyone seen my son?"

"I didn't see him get out of the van," Ron mutters, craning his neck to look around at the hoard of people. "Did you?"

"No," Carl mumbles, already having a bad feeling about this. He's seen situations like this one too many times to not know how it's going to end….

"Aiden? Has anyone seen Aiden?!" Deanna keeps shouting, her cool facade slowly chipping away under duress. "Aiden?!"

An odd look comes over Rick's face, like a sudden epiphany. He looks over at Glenn and quietly asks. "Did Noah….did he not make it either?"

Glenn wipes his face with the back of his head and shakes his head, sniffling and trying to compose himself.

Carl bows his head and sighs quietly, a sad sigh like one of a 9/11 spectator. He didn't know Noah all that well, he was only with them for a couple of months, but it's always hard anyway, especially when they're so young….

Deanna keeps yelling for her son, now looking completely frazzled and upset, voice cracking like a whip and pacing back and forth in front of everyone like a raving lunatic. "Aiden?! Has anyone seen my son?! Has anyone seen Aiden?!"

"Mrs. M-Monroe," Glenn chokes out as he wipes his face with his hand again, chin resting on Maggie's shoulder. "Mrs. Monroe….I'm sorry."

Deanna takes a second to gaze over at him in his somewhat pitiful state before continuing to scream for her son, in complete and total denial.

"Why...why is she still calling?" Ron asks, throat tight and head awhirl.

"She doesn't want to believe it," Carl answers solemnly, knowing exactly how she feels from experience. "That or she truly doesn't believe it. It's….it's really hard to swallow, especially for the first time. I mean….if I'd been gone a few days and someone just came up to you and told you I had died, would you believe them?"

Ron thickly swallows, not wanting to even imagine the scenario. He shakes his head, figuring he probably would believe them deep down but try not to and keep hoping beyond reason.

"Aiden?!" Deanna shrieks, running a bony hand through her hair, looking downright distraught. "Aiden?!"

Everyone watches their leader, usually so collected and articulate, lose it, eventually going silent and looking over at Glenn again for reassurance. He apologizes again, voice steadier and more sure this time, and Deanna stops shouting and instead elects to stare at the beat up van in silence. She slowly looks over at Glenn and Maggie again, then at Rick, then over at the crowd of people, chattering anxiously like a low hum of buzzing bees.

"My son….my son is dead…." She says, sounding extremely calm and composed. "My son is dead," she says again, like saying it enough times will make it seem real. "My son is dead."

"Oh god…" Ron mutters, running a hand through his tousled hair. "This is fucking bad."

Carl hums in agreement: this is pretty fucking bad. Besides the fact that two people are dead and Tara might be dying making it three, Aiden's death means Deanna is going to be in an unstable state, which spells disaster. She already seems to be losing it.

"I wonder what happened," Ron mutters, gawking at the van again.

"Me too…." Carl breathes, feeling his stomach clench, cramp, and feel queasy like it used to when the run car pulled back into the prison yard and he'd been afraid certain people wouldn't hop out of the car alive and well.

Ron looks over at him, feeling extremely empathetic. "Let's go," he urges softly, figuring the more they stand around ogling the scene and giving it time to sink in the more upset Carl will be.

Carl shakes his head, "Hold on," he insists, hoping Glenn speaks up and explains what happened. He really wants to know what the fuck happened on this run, what went wrong and why Tara's head is split open, Nicholas looks like someone beat the shit out of him, and how Noah and Aiden Monroe died.

"Glenn," Maggie says softly as her husband starts to gently pull away from her embrace.

"Rick," Glenn whispers, taking a few steps towards the older man, Maggie still holding onto his forearm. "We need to talk," he says, wiping his hand across his slick face again.

Rick nods solemnly, a thoughtful looks on his face as he puts a steady hand on Glenn's shoulder.

"You're right, we sure as hell do," he agrees with another nod. He looks over at Maggie before saying, "Let's head back to my house, make some some coffee and sandwiches, and talk, alright?"

Maggie nods moving her grip back to Glenn's hand.

Glenn nods too but frowns a little, swallowing thickly and staring down at his and his wife's intertwined hands. "I don't know if I'll be able to eat," he admits, looking a little shaken up. He shakes his head, quickly attempting to regain his composure. "Rick…." he mutters quietly, looking him straight in the eyes, serious as the grave, eyes looking like two huge abysses and face suddenly looking stormy and full of anger. "C-Carol was right. About these people."

Rick looks at Glenn in silence for a few moments before jerking his head to the side, signaling for Glenn and Maggie to follow him.

"Come on," Carl mutters, grabbing Ron by the hand and pulling him through the congregation, trying to catch up with his dad, Glenn, and Maggie. He really needs to know what went down. Carl's always hated being left out of the loop, not entirely sure what's unfolding around him and being left in the dark. Even when he was little and most of the adults around him wanted nothing more than for him to live in ignorance and be protected behind the curtains, he wanted to know exactly what the fuck was going on. He never will just sit on the sidelines twiddling his thumbs, it's one of the few things about him that's never changed.

Ron doesn't hesitate to follow Carl, weaving between the departing people. He's inexperienced in matters like this, completely new to this like every other shocked Alexandrian standing around and gaping wide like a school of fish, but unlike them he's always had the most morbid curiosity, the worst habit of having to know things raw and real. HIs mother used to say it was a good thing he wasn't a cat or he'd be long since dead.  
-

"It….it was a stupid mistake. We were all yelling at him not to do it," Glenn mutters, rubbing the bridge of his nose as if in severe pain and looking down at his untouched mug of coffee, the steam rising off the surface and making condensation spot on his nose.

"But he kept shooting at it, even though it was decked out in heavy SWAT gear. And….eventually he shot one of the grenades and it all went to hell from there."

"Was the blast what killed Noah and Aiden?" Maggie asks gently, rubbing little circles on Glenn's back with the palm of her hand.

Glenn shakes his head. "No….I mean, sort of. The blast killed Aiden. He….he got impaled by these shards of wood from the shelving units. Like….he was impaled through the stomach and the chest. Tara hit her head during the blast too, and all these rows and rows of shelves were knocked over and I couldn't get to her. Eugene was with her though, so we yelled to each other to make a plan: to try and circle back around to the van. Eugene could take Tara back into this storage room we'd passed earlier and wait there until me and everyone else had gotten to the van and pulled back around to the exit in the storage room. It was….a flawed plan looking back at it but….it was the best we could come up with at the time."

"He was impaled?" Ron can't help but feel his jaw drop at the thought of Spencer Monroe, someone he'd seen just 42 hours ago walking around fine, impaled by several split edges of wood.

Glenn nods, looking across the table at him. "He was….he was still alive too."

"After he was impaled?" Ron breathes, feeling his heart hammer in his chest. He's very aware of what a shit storm it is outside the walls, he knows what sorts of things go on: death by walker, death by people, rape, torture. He knows. But the thought of someone still being alive after being impaled…..Ron's sleep deprived mind has a field day conjuring up nice images of that.

"Yeah," Glenn mutters, bowing his head briefly. "He was screaming for us not to leave him….but we couldn't….get him out either. Even if we had managed to, he would've bled out….there were all these walkers coming too, swarming into the room. I tried to anyway, tried to get him free."

"Glenn…" Maggie mutters, shaking her head.

"I couldn't though. Me and Noah stood there, trying our best, but we couldn't….Nicholas….he wanted to take off. He was out of there and he was yelling for me and Noah to just leave."

"You should've listened to him," Rick mutters, walking over to the table and placing two cans of of soda down in front of Carl and Ron before slumping over into a chair by the head of the table.

Glenn shakes his head. "I know but it's hard to just leave someone who's screaming and crying. Even though you know you can't save them, it's just….hard."

Rick nods. "Is that how you lost Noah?"

Glenn shakes his head again, wrapping a few of his fingers around the handle of the coffee mug and inching it towards himself. "No….we eventually did give up with Aiden…...we had to, and we ran out and to the main entrance. When we got there it was swarmed, the walkers were everywhere. We managed to get into one of those…..revolving doors. Me and Noah were inside a panel and Nicholas was in one across from us. I had no idea what to do, nobody did. I was scared, and I….I don't get all that scared anymore, but I was practically pissing myself at first trying to figure out how we were going to get out of this. We….we just stood there for awhile. The walkers were on both sides of the doors at that point, inside the building and in the parking lot. I guess there'd been a herd nearby and the blast of the grenade attracted them."

"How'd you get out?" Carl asks, not sure how the hell HE would've handled the situation himself, not being able to see how the hell they could've gotten out.

"We were saved by Eugene," Glenn mutters, causing Rick to go wide-eyed and Carl and Ron to do a double-take.

"Eugene saved you? Wasn't he waiting for you back in the storage room?" Carl asks.

"I thought so but he told me that walkers swarmed in back there so he hoisted Tara up over his shoulder in a fire-man carry and made his way out."

"Are you serious? Eugene?" Maggie asks, looking shocked. "How'd he manage to get out if it was swarmed?"

"He had a gun on him," Glenn says. "He says the main reason he left wasn't because of the walkers though. He says the room he was in was secured and they could've stayed safely in there forever. He claims the reason he left was because Tara's bleeding had gotten so bad. He thought she was gonna hemorrhage and die."

"Wow….I just….I never thought he had anythin' like that in him," Maggie admits.

Glenn shakes his head. "Me neither but I'm fucking grateful that he does because we'd all be dead otherwise. Anyway….Eugene was able to make it into the parking lot. He laid Tara out in the trunk and made a covering for her head to try and slow the bleeding. He saw the swarm by the entryway and knew we were royally fucked, so he decided to try and lure the walkers in front of the entrance away."

"How'd he do that?" Carl asks.

"He blasted some of the godawful dubstep Aiden had been playing on the way to the warehouse with the windows rolled down and cruised in front of the entrance, yelling and hitting the side of the van. It worked really well, almost all of them followed him, grabbing at and smushing themselves up against the van."

"But... all the walkers inside the building….." Rick drawls.

Glenn nods, lifting his coffee mug with a shaking hand. "Yeah...that's where I ran into problems. My plan was to slide the door just barely one way so that Noah and I could slip out. This would've worked because our panel was closer to the outside, we could've gotten out without feeding Nicholas to the walkers. But….the second we started moving the door that way….Nicholas freaked the fuck out….he rammed into the door and freed himself….and when he did he pushed me and Noah's panel out into the open. Made us lunch…."

"And….the walkers...they got Noah," Maggie says in a slow curious tone, not really asking but making a statement.

Glenn just nods his head, swallowing a mouthful of coffee and almost choking. He coughs into a balled fist for a few seconds before shaking his head. "Yes," he says simply. "We both backed up against the door, trying to swing it back the other way but we couldn't. It was too late. The walkers had already….some of them managed to wedge their torsos and arms into the panel and were grabbing at us. One….got ahold of Noah's ankle….I grabbed him and tried to pull him back in. I really tired, he was squirming around on the ground, trying to pull himself towards me….but at that point several of them were clawing at his legs and feet…..I didn't let go of him….he let go of me. I….waited a few minutes before making my escape….I was shaken up….when I got out I found Nicholas trying to get Eugene to get out of the van, he was trying to abandon him there and take the van home himself, leave me and him behind….I….I hit him a few times, threw him on the ground….it was just an angry rush of adrenaline at that point."

There's a tense silence that stretches out between everyone in the kitchen for several seconds. Glenn takes a second swallow of coffee before grimacing and huffing out a deep breath. Rick rubs his temple with his index finger and closes his eyes before standing up and grabbing Maggie's empty coffee mug, going to refill it.

"Deanna…" Rick says slowly as he pours the hot liquid carefully to avoid burning himself. "She doesn't look like she's handlin' this too well."

He gives Maggie a pointed look as he makes his way back over to the table and sets the mug of coffee down in front of her. "Make sure to talk to her," Rick tells her. "You're our only connection to 'er."

Maggie nods, suddenly going from looking grim to looking hopeless. "She might not talk to me...if...if this goes down the way I think we're all thinkin' it will….she might not talk to me."

Ron doesn't understand what they're talking about, but he knows it's not his place to ask, he already feels like he somewhat evaded their privacy today by sitting around this kitchen table with them and hearing Glenn's first-hand account of the gore fest that took place on the run this morning.

"She might though, and if she does, take advantage of it," Rick advises, finishing off his own cup of joe.

"I think we might be ok….as awful as it sounds to say this, one of our own dying on this run might be...the only part of this that makes us look credible," Glenn says, rubbing his forehead and neck sorely.

"You never know though…" Maggie says, sounding nervous as she takes a sip. "Nicholas might….spin the story a bit…"

Glenn sighs out through his nose. "He probably will….I….punched him. He's all bruised up because I beat the shit out of him….I was pissed, ok? I was really pissed…."

Ron feels anger bubble up in his own chest, he knows how Glenn feels and he feels slightly aligned with them, like he's being cheated and treated unfairly in a way too. "It'd be nuts if you weren't pissed!" he blurts out, eyes narrowed. "He killed Noah. He almost got you killed too and all to save his own skin!"

Glenn can't help but laugh a little bit and grin, shaking his head. "God, Ron, can I have a recording of you saying that and then have you publically approve the statement?"

Maggie smiles sadly into her cup of coffee. "Ron, you might be the only Alexandrian who'll believe that," she says quietly.

"Why wouldn't anyone else believe us?" Carl asks, looking just as lost as his friend. "It's the truth."

Ron nods in agreement. "Yeah. How could they not believe it if Glenn and Eugene both say that's what happened."

Rick tiredly rubs at his eyes and looks at the two boys sitting across from him. "We….we already aren't the most trusted people here. We aren't necessarily looked at as Alexandrians yet, we're still an outsider group livin' within the walls….and when Deanna gave me and Michonne and Maggie pretty inside jobs here, people….people are wary of us. This situation, even though it's nothin' but an accident, will make them even less trustin' of us."

"But….like Glenn said, one of our own died too!" Carl says, face distorting into an angry scowl.

"I know, I know, but Nicholas'll probably say somethin' else….make it look like Glenn sacrificed him to save himself."

"That's bull shit," Ron spits out before he can stop himself. He has the grace to quietly apologize for his choice of words, but Rick just laughs.

"It is bull shit," he agrees, shaking his head. "But….we don't have the credibility we need for people to believe us. From the second we walked through these gates, several people here didn't want us here. They said we looked wild, crazy, uncivilized. They thought we were gonna take Alexandria over, were convinced we were nothin' but bad news."

Ron looks down at his feet, knowing his dad had been one of those people who hadn't wanted Rick's group there. He'd told him that it was because they looked unstable, like wild animals (which was hypocritical beyond belief). His mom had been welcoming to them, hadn't thought anything of it….although….at first she had warned Ron not to talk to them until Deanna interviewed them.

"That number has just went up the longer we've been here," Maggie says, still looking down into her mug. "I mean, sure, there have been a lot of people who've come around to us, realized we don't them mean any harm and just want a place to call home, but so many think we're tryin' to weed our way into the system, get integrated and then take over."

Carl looks down at his can of soda, remembering how people had been giving him odd looks when he'd first arrived. He HAD gotten several smiles, but many people had also looked down their nose at him like he was a filthy rabid stray that had accidentally wandered into a Pedigree dog show.

"You've….you've gotta talk to Deanna then," Ron insists with a shake of his head. "You need to talk to her before Nicholas does and shits all over you guys!"

Rick sighs. "We could all testify about what happened and it wouldn't do a damn thing because we've all got one thing in common," Rick says. "We're all from the same group. Unless Nicholas says what really happened, this isn't gonna turn out so well."

"He won't." Glenn groans out, burying his face in his hands.

"He won't what?"

"Say what really happened. Not after….not after I beat him. He's going to say that I tried to feed him to the walkers, he won't even mention that it was HIM who had more leeway, more space between him and the opening. He won't say that he killed Noah to save his own ass or that he tried to hijack the van, he'll make it look like I fucked up."

Carl grits his teeth, anger swelling in his chest like a flame. "He's an asshole," he mutters, glaring down at the kitchen table like it was what pushed the revolving door and fed Noah to the walkers for lunch.

Maggie sighs and shakes her head. "A dishonest asshole," she mumbles through a mouthful of coffee.

"Rick!" A voice shouts from the entryway as the front door bangs shut. Rosita and Michonne quickly file into the kitchen, looking bewildered.

"What the hell is going on?!" Rosita asks, yanking out a kitchen chair and rather forcefully sitting down in it, the legs squeaking as they move across the tiled floor.

"We heard about the run," Michonne says, sounding much more calm. "Is Tara alright?"

Rick sighs, motioning for Michonne to take a seat. "We don't know if Tara's gonna be ok or not yet. She bashed her head in an explosion and-"

"Explosion?!" Rosita asks, eyes practically popping out of her head. "Glenn, what happened?!"

"You just missed storytime, sorry," Glenn mutters, resting his cheek on the table's surface.

"I heard Noah and the youngest Monroe boy died. Is that true?" Michonne asks, looking around the table like a journalist looks around at a group of politicians while interviewing.

"It is," Rick says solemnly.

"Oh god," Rosita mumbles, shaking her head. "Glenn, please, tell us what happened!"

Glenn sighs and goes over the events that took place in the warehouse for the second time, but halfway through his story Daryl walks in demanding answers too, so he starts over.

"That prick," Daryl mutters, shaking his head. "If he runs off to Deanna runnin' his mouth with a stream of bull shit…"

"We're screwed," Michonne says sharply.

"But….we lost Noah….that accounts for something, right?" Rosita says, resting her chin atop her fists. "Why would we kill our own?"

"Glenn is the pussy who sacrafices him in Nicholas's version...or Noah got impaled and Aiden was sacrificed...or maybe the original because Noah was inexperienced and wasn't with us long enough to be part of the cult," Michonne says with a shake of her head. "The possibilities are endless."

"Aw fuck," Daryl grumbles.

"Aw fuck is right."

Everyone turns around when they hear the front door open and close again and watch as Carol makes her way into the room.

"Spare me the details, I was just talking with Eugene and know all about it," she says briskly as she pulls a chair out and sits down on the edge. "I saw Deanna on my way back," she says, looking around at everyone. "She doesn't look too good….tight-lipped….pale….I smiled at her and she looked the other way," Carol says like she's listing off things she intends to pick up at the grocery store. She pauses to smile over at Ron. "Hi, Ron. How're you?"

Ron awkwardly grins back at her. "Uh…..fine."

Carol nods, the smile not faltering until she looks away from him. "I don't know where we should take this from here, but we need to watch our backs."

"I'm gonna go see if I can talk to Deanna," Maggie says, quickly finishing off her second cup of coffee before standing up and pushing in her chair. She leans down to give Glenn a kiss on the cheek and mutters in his ear an offer to go with her. Glenn quietly declines, mumbling that he needs to shower and excusing himself. Rosita gets up to go too, dismissing herself by saying she needs to go find Abraham and see what he knows.

Carol gets up and offers to make everyone lunch, already grabbing a loaf of bread out of the pantry. None of the remaining party around the table objects as she starts clearing a space on the counter to make sandwiches.

"I wonder where Eugene wandered off to. Do you think he's still by the infirmary, waiting for Tara to get out of surgery?" Michonne asks. "Rosita told me that's the last place she saw him."

"Maybe," Daryl says, digging around in his pocket for a cigarette and a lighter. "I need to congratulate him next time I see 'im."

Rick smiles a little and nods. "Yeah, never thought he'd be savin' people's skins like that. I took him for really nothin' but a coward."

"He's evolving," Carol states simply as she spreads some mayo across a slice of bread. "He's adjusting and adapting to the world now that Abraham is refusing to protect him and he doesn't have the 'cure' as a shield anymore. It's evolution….right before our very eyes."

"I wonder if Abraham will be willing to make amends with him once he hears about his heroic acts during the chaos today," Michonne muses aloud, standing up to head upstairs and retrieve a crying Judith from her crib.

"Maybe…." Carol replies with a little hum, fetching a few plates from the cupboard. She looks over her shoulder at Ron and Carl and smiles faintly.

"Ron...does your mom know that you're over here?" She asks casually.

Ron flushes and shakes his head. "No...I was supposed to be home a long time ago but…."

Carol smiles over her shoulder at him. "Oh, I'm not kicking you out or anything, I'm just curious because I saw your mother earlier and she asked me if by any chance I'd seen you today."

Ron sighs, a twang of guilt ringing in his skull. He was already sure earlier today that his mom was gonna kill him when he finally showed his face at home, now he has a feeling she'll kill him and desecrate his body after hours of torture. He hates to worry her, but going home hadn't even crossed his mind until around noon, already much later than she had ordered him to be home by.

Rick laughs. "Yeah, your mom knocked on the door around 7 this mornin' and asked me if I'd seen you. She's probably worried sick about you."

"I usedta be gone for weeks at a time and my mama never questioned me about where the hell I'd been, long as I kept my nose clean," Daryl mutters, teeth clenched around a cigarette as he pulls out a lighter. "But….different times now I guess."

"Your mother still wouldn't have cared about where you were even if you grew up during the apocalypse," Carol tells him with a pointed look.

Daryl just laughs and puffs out a cloud of smoke, trying to make light of the rather uncomfortable situation they're all in.  
-

"Spencer," Deanna calls from the living room doorway, voice strong and sure but bloodshot eyes deceiving the mask. "Spencer, are you listening to me?"

Her oldest son (her only son now) continues to stare absently down at the carpet, eyes glazed over as if hypnotized. His hands are white from how hard he's pressing them together and are shaking.

He hasn't moved from his spot on the couch for hours, not since he woke up and learnt of his brother's gorey demise. He seems to have become catatonic, and Deanna is honestly, for the first time in her life, unsure of what to do.

"Spencer," she calls again. He looks up this time, watery irises flickering up from the carpet to his mother's tear stained face.

"You should eat something," she says, sounding impersonal as ever but face filled with concern. "Or at least stand up and stretch your legs…..maybe take a short walk."

Spencer stares blankly at her for a minute, his grief riddled mind taking a few seconds to comprehend her words. Her words sink in after a few seconds, so he uses the arm of the sofa to help him up and shuffles into the kitchen.

His chest and joints ache, he's in pain. He feels like he's soaked with guilt, soaked in gasoline and waiting for someone to be kind enough to strike the match. He feels like he killed his brother, like he's indirectly an asset to his death.

If he'd gone instead….if he'd just stuck it out and gone….

The voice of reason in Spencer's head tries to tell him that if he'd gone he'd just be dead instead of Aiden. He was so tired he probably would've ended up falling asleep behind the wheel and wrecking the van, killing himself and possibly everyone else. He would've been slow and lethargic from pulling that all nighter with Enid and been a sloppy shot and a slow runner, he would've been bit at the least, possibly devoured.

The voice of reason can scream at the top of its lungs in vain though, Spencer feels like shit, soaked to the bone with guilt. He feels like a murderer, he feels filthy and suicidal as hell. He stands in the middle of the kitchen, cold tile sending chills down his spine. His heart feels like it's being ripped apart, he feels like he might vomit.

He sobs quietly into his hands to try and muffle the sound, leaning against the counter for support because he can't stand on his own two fucking legs.

His heart hurts, his legs hurt, his arms hurt. Everything hurts. He wonders to himself if this is the kind of pain Aiden suffered as the decaying hands ripped him apart and gorged on his innards. He wonders what hurt worse, the shards of wood or gnashing teeth. He cries harder as he thinks about it, wishing to stop the horrific slide show his brain is presenting him with.

What Spencer doesn't understand is that his brother hadn't been in nearly as much pain as he's currently in. Aiden's pain was excruciating but only momentarily before death released him, having had enough fun with the torture. Aiden felt no remorse or guilt, both extremely unbearable feelings that eat people alive and force them to sit and stew in it's stomach acid, burning them up. Spencer's pain is eternal, every morning when he first wakes up it'll feel like he's boiling and every night before going to bed he'll feel like he's being stabbed, and he'll burn for every minute in between. He doesn't get that the deepest and most fatal wounds are invisible to the naked eye and the worse scars internal.

Deanna waits for her remaining son to return to the living, opening up the cabinet doors and digging out the old tape player. Her husband walks silently into the room and slumps down in the ugly armchair, teary eyes transfixed on his wife.

"What are you doing?" he asks quietly.

"I figured we should listen to Aiden's run-tapes…." Deanna answers stiffly, popping the tape she'd had retrieved from the van earlier into the player.

Reg nods, watching the ghost of his surviving son creep into the room, holding an unpeeled orange in his hand awkwardly. He motions for Spencer to sit, but he stays hovering in the doorway.

"Sit down, Spencer," Deanna instructs, pressing play and raising the volume before sitting on the couch. She pats the cushion next to her and watches as her son flops down next to her.

As the obnoxious dubstep blasts, Reg closes his eyes, still not believing that his son is gone. Deanna stares unmoving at the wall, too much on her mind. She feels overwhelmed with the death of her child and the upheaval it's bringing to the rest of the community, striking fear and uncertainty into the residents. It's also making 'Rick's Group' more predominant as outsiders, setting up the dividers again, making them untrustful. She's had a stressful day, Nicholas coming to her a little bit after the chaos had calmed down and claiming Glenn was not to be trusted and neither was Rick or any of them for that matter, and the priest who's been traveling with Rick's Group, Father Gabriel, also came to her later in the day and said that they were immoral and bad people. She has no idea what to do or think, and she doesn't feel as in control as she usually does, the death of her child being her kryptonite and zapping all of her powers.

Spencer is the only one who cries while they listen to the tape, and he cries hard enough for both of his parents combined as if to make up for their lack of tears.  
-

"Take off your hat," Ron says, leaning against the porch railing.

"What?" Carl asks, giving his friend a look from under the brim.

"Take off your hat," Ron repeats, scotching closer to Carl.

"Why?" Carl asks.

"Because I wanna see your eyes. I'm like not entirely sure how're you're feeling right now, you've been really fucking quiet since….the run group came back and I know I can't make you talk because nobody can, but I can tell how you're feeling by your eyes."

Carl sighs out in slight irritation, placing his right hand on the brim of his hat. "You know dude, you're making me regret telling you that."

Ron chuckles sadly, shaking his head as Carl takes his hat off.

The two of them have been sitting out on the porch, almost exactly like they were this morning before the run van came zooming in through the main gates, bringing chaos and unease along with it.

"You…..you can talk?" Ron offers with a little shrug. He misses the bit of anger Carl showed at lunch, he misses it because now he's sullen and quiet. Ron knows him too well at this point to not know he's anxious, squirming around inside.

Carl shrugs. "Not much to say."

Ron frowns before slowly piecing together what he's going to say, being articulate and so not himself. "My dad might be an asshole, but he's good at his job," he says slowly, assuming that's what's eating Carl. "He won't let her die."

Carl can't help but smile a little, knowing Ron's trying to get to him, reach him through the fog. He never means to get distant when upset, but he does. He shuts down and crawls into his shell, not to hide, but to fight alone.

"Even if he's the best surgeon in the world, which he may be at this point, she could still die. People die in surgery, even if the surgeons did everything right. Sometimes they just aren't strong enough to wake up," Carl mutters, twisting his hat around in his hands.

Ron nods, brain rushing to figure out his next move. "True but….I have hope that she's gonna wake up. I think that five hours from now, Tara is gonna be awake and alive."

"Can...can I ask you something? I'm not trying to be a prick, but I need to ask."

"Go ahead," Ron says with a shrug.

Carl nods. "So….is your dad the one doing surgery on Tara?"

"Yeah. He's the only surgeon here right now. That lady, Denise, is capable of performing surgery too, but she says it makes her nervous and she's not as experienced and she's not as experienced, so she only does it if my dad can't."

"Can your dad perform surgery today?"

"What do you mean? He's doing it right now," Ron mutters with a raised eyebrow.

Carl takes a second, looking behind them at the door to make sure no one is about to walk out on the porch and overhear them. After lunch Carol pulled Rick and Daryl aside, requesting a 'private' talk and Michonne left to go get some air, but Carl's still paranoid that someone will eavesdrop. "Your dad was drunk last night," he mutters quietly, eyes still glued to the door. "That's why her hit you and your mom….so, does that mean he's like, hungover or whatever?"

Ron chews the inside of his cheek, looking down at the porch stairs. "He is, I'm not gonna lie, but…..it's never really interfered with his work. Like, he used to go to work drunk or after having had drunk all night….he's performed live saving transplants while buzzed or coming down from a buzz. I think it might actually help calm him down, you know? Keeps him focused."

Carl nods even though he doesn't understand. He wants too, wants to believe that without a doubt that Tara will wake up perfectly ok.

Ron watches Carl start to go rigid again, looking like a statue, unmoving and withdrawn. He sighs as he watches him play with his hat in his hands. "We could go down to the infirmary and see what's going on…..if you want," Ron offers quietly. He moves his hand to brush against Carl's lower back.

Carl looks over at him when his hand makes contact with his back. He shrugs. "She's probably still in surgery…" he mumbles.

Ron shakes his head. "It's worth checking out anyway."

Carl can't help but smile a little, but he tries to hide it behind his hands. "I don't wanna waste your time, man. I've been selfish, keeping you with me for almost 24 hours now. Your mom probably wants you home…"

Ron smiles at him, scotching even closer. "It's not a waste of time, come on." He grabs Carl's hand and pulls him to his feet, leading him down the street and to the infirmary.

They walk in silence, Carl keeping his eyes fixed on the street to prevent from making eye contact, especially with the way Ron's playing eye-ball tag, trying to look him in the eyes and see what's going on behind them.

"So….I totally get that you're upset-"

"I'm not upset."

"But I really wish you'd kinda tell me HOW you're upset, tell me what's….burning."

Carl shrugs, setting his hat back on his head. "Nothing. No use in worrying about Tara, it's out of my control and….this is gonna make me sound like shit but…..I wasn't all that close with Noah. He wasn't with us all that long, you know? Only a few months, two or three I think."

"You still seem sad."

"Well, everyone is right now, I mean, people died."

"Yeah but…." Ron mutters, scrunching up his face in thought. "You….I….I see something else eating you and it's killing me not knowing what it is."

Carl just shrugs, causing Ron to frown and step in front of him, cutting him off and blocking his path. Carl stumbles a bit over his own feet as he's abruptly blocked by Ron.

They stand there awkwardly for a moment, Carl still looking intently at the ground, brows knitted in slight frustration and Ron looking perplexed.

"Come on," he mutters, quirking his head to the side.

Carl sighs out, giving his friend a slightly exasperated look. "I just told you what's up, ok?"

Ron huffs out through his nose, looking down at the shorter boy. His lips mouth his name, but his voice box seems to have short-circuited.

"It's late," Carl mutters after a few more heavy seconds of silence, looking up at the darkening sky.

Ron pauses to look up at the sky too, the dark violet surprising him a bit, the day really feels like it flew by, the morning being dwindled by in the park, Ron cutting himself up into a bazillion little pieces, and the rest of the day being spent around Carl's kitchen table, picking at sandwiches (Carl lost his appetite at the news of Tara's injury and Noah's death, Ron lost his at the thought of people being impaled). He glances back down at Carl and shrugs.

"So?" He asks.

Carl shrugs, continuing to twist his hat between his hands and stare down at it like it's an extremely fascinating artifact uncovered at ancient Egyptian burial grounds. Ron huffs out again, quickly reaching down and snatching it out of his hands. Carl frowns up at him, Ron frowning back down at him, holding the hat up above his own head and out of Carl's reach.

"Your friend was right," Ron says simply, still attempting to make eye contact.

"What?"

"You said you had a friend who told you that you just run away from your problems, you admitted yourself last night that you just….push it to the side and ignore it. That's what you're doing right now."

"I'm not," Carl mutters, shaking his head. "I'm just…."

Ron stares down at him, waiting for him to elaborate. "What?" he asks quietly.

Carl shoves his hands in his pockets. "It's….it makes me sound like a total asshole but…"

Ron cracks a tiny smile, trying to get him to relax and talk.

"It's just...Noah…"

Ron tilts his head, signifying that he's listening. When Carl takes several seconds to speak again he tries to prompt. "What about Noah?"

"Like I said, it sucks that he's dead...but….I've had way worse loses…."

"Then why are you so sad?" Ron mutters inquiringly.

Carl shrugs. "I'm not sad-"

"Yes you are."

"Stop looking at my eyes."

"No."

Carl shrugs again, his natural blow-off response it seems. "It's just….he was with one of my friends before I met him…..my one friend got separated and he had been with her….I never really got to see her again, I mean, the I hadn't seen her in months but when we finally found her, she got shot…..Noah had been with her for that time that we hadn't...he knew all about what had happened to her there, knew all this stuff about her…..a lot of the times at night he'd stay up with me and Maggie and Daryl and tell us all these stories about her….there was always something for him to tell us and….now that he's gone...his stories are too, and I know he had more he hadn't, like, told us yet…."

Ron looks down at him, watching his irises closely. "Did you feel like….like she was still with you when he told those stories?" He asks softly.

Carl shakes his head. "No, but I felt like I'd been there with her, hadn't lost that time. It….it makes me really sad knowing those stories I'll never hear…..are like….dead too."

"I'm sorry," Ron mutters, lowering his arm. He knows that it's not a helpful thing to say, but he doesn't know what else to do. "This friend of yours...how did she get separated?" he asks gently, knowing he's hit a wall and is crossing into private territory. If Carl decides to shut down, he'll let it slide, let him crawl away for now.

"We were all separated for awhile," Carl says slowly, trying to think of a way to explain. "It's a really long story….we'd been living at this prison and we'd had a good thing going but…..this guy, he went by the title Governor, he wanted to take it….we had a lot of nasty run ins with him and whatever group he was leading at the time….he killed a lot of our people and he broke down the prison walls, attacked us. Everyone sort of scattered after the prison fell…..I ended up escaping with my dad and after a few weeks alone, Michonne found us. We all met up again at this…..cannibal camp. Actually, that camp is where I met Abraham, Rosita, Eugene, and Tara. They hadn't been at the prison with us. Abraham and Rosita had been part of a group trying to get Eugene to DC because Eugene claimed he had the cure to the virus and Tara had been part of the Governor's group that wrecked the prison. We all ended up in the same train car at this camp though…..god, I'm rambling….what did you ask?"

Ron just stares at him for a moment, at least a million questions popping into his head based off what Carl just told him. He swallows thickly. "I asked how your friend got separated from you."

"When the prison fell. She and Daryl traveled together for awhile after that."

Ron nods. "What was her name?"

Carl is silent for a few minutes, shuffling his boots heels against the pavement. "Beth," he mutters. "Beth Greene. She was Maggie's little sister. She was the one that….told me that she could see emotions in my eyes."

Ron nods, feeling like he's just cracked a safe and is waiting for the heavy door to finally swing open. "Where did she meet Noah?"

"Um….she got kidnapped one night while her and Daryl were staying at this funeral home. I'm not totally sure what happened but...she was taken to this hospital back in Atlanta….it was a messed up community, something where there was this point system, according to Noah, and you had to work to get rid of the points but anytime you ate you got more points and you had to work off what you 'owed'. Anyway, she and him lived there until they decided to try and escape together….Noah managed to get away but they caught Beth and took her back. Noah ran into Daryl, who had been out with Carol, trying to find Beth. He stole their shit, never heard the end of that, Daryl was pretty pissed, and obviously they caught up with him. Long story short, Noah took us back to get her. We were gonna trade off, give them Noah and they'd give us Beth….but...that wasn't the original deal. We had planned on leaving with both Beth and Noah, but Noah was willing to sacrifice his freedom with us to let Beth go home. Uh…"

Ron waits for him to speak again, a weird heavy fog seeming to set over them and block out the rest of their surroundings, Alexandria not existing at all. As far as either of them are concerned, they're standing in that hosp in Atlanta as Noah offers to stay so that Beth may go.

"Beth was pissed. Really pissed. She never usually….got worked up and if she did she didn't lose it like some people do. But she gave Noah a tight hug before turning around and facing the woman who had set up the deal and ran the place. I don't remember what she said anymore, it's kind of a blur, but she stabbed the woman in the arm with a pair of mini scissors she'd been hiding in her arm cast. The woman p-panicked….." Carl goes silent after that, looking down at the road and exhaling heavily.

"She shot Beth in the head," he whispers, shutting his eyes, still able to hear the sound of the gun and see the blood and brain matter flying through strands of light blond hair and staining the hospital walls.

Ron is silent, rerunning the story in his head again and again. After a few moments of silence, Ron's murmured voice breaks through the hospital haze and brings them back to the street.

"How did you meet Beth?"

"I'd known Beth for awhile….a little bit after the apocalypse started, my group found this farm and we made camp there for awhile…..Beth's family ran that farm."

"Were….Maggie and Beth the only people you met on the farm?"

Carl shakes his head. "There was Hershel and Otis...but I never met Otis...and Jimmy and Patricia…..we didn't stay at the farm all that long….it was great while we were there but one night it got totally swarmed and we had to leave."

"Were Maggie and Beth the only ones to make it off the farm the night it got swarmed?"

"No Hershel made it too."

Ron licks his lips, feeling like he's stepping around in a land mine, trying to be careful. He's not feeling so bold, but he asks anyway. "Who was Hershel?"

"He was Maggie and Beth's dad. He was…..a great man. He was a veterinarian and he saved my life. He saved a lot of other people's lives too, he was smart as hell and he never once gave up on anybody. He would always stand by you and try his best to give you good advice, whether or not he agreed with what the hell you were doing."

"How'd he….." Ron trails off, feeling slightly ashamed for asking but curiosity getting the best of him.

"The Governor," Carl mumbles, still looking downwards. "He…..he decapitated him."

Ron stares wide-eyed. "He….cut off his head?!" he mutters.

Carl just nods, closing his eyes again. "It was the day he broke down the walls and the prison fell. The Governor was holding Michonne and Hershel captive, using them as hostages. He used Michonne's katana to do it."

"So….you went from the Greene's farm to the prison?"

"Sorta…..we lived out on the road for a few months in between, looking for somewhere to settle down."

"And…..after the prison fell?"

"Another few months out on the road."

"And…..a cannibal camp?" Ron asks, feeling his mouth go dry.

"Uh….yeah. Back in Georgia there was this supposed survival camp called Terminus. We all met up there…..turns out they were luring people there, stealing their shit and eating them," Carl mutters with a flippant shrug like he's talking about a camping trip with minor incidents. Truth be told, he's just not feeling up to getting too into it, not in the mood to relive it.

"And….how'd you….get out of there?"

"Kinda thanks to Carol. She set off some bottle rockets or something at the camp, set shit on fire….I was in the train car waiting to be dragged off and killed, I'm not totally sure what happened…..it…..it was terrifying though," he admits with another flippant shrug.

Ron stares at him for another long period of silence, the haze making them shiver as they huddle in the train car full of fear and despair.

"After you escaped…."

"Another long while on the road…..a short time in a church then a long journey to DC for Eugene...then, one morning after we'd spent the night in this farm house and all thought we were gonna die, a man approached us and told us about this place he came from. We….we were paranoid and still are, you can't survive and be trustful anymore, so we tied him up and questioned him. That man….he was Aaron and he told us about Alexandria. We decided to give it a try, there's really nowhere else for us anymore."

"...where was your favorite place to live?" Ron murmurs, barely audible over the screams of the distraught people, scratching at the walls of the train car until their nails break and bleed.

"The farm," Carl says with a faint smile. "I was little then so I thought it was super cool that I got to feed chickens every morning and watch Maggie milk cows. I liked the animals….the land was pretty…..it was….nice," Carl says , sounding dismissive again, trying to avoid getting emotional about it.

"My memories from there though are….." Carl sighs and bows his head further down, his long and unmanageable hair hanging in his face. "They're kinda….tainted from the bad things that happened there."

"Like what?" Ron whispers, breathless as the one watching life drain away and disappear like it never existed.

"I….I killed my friend," Carl mutters, voice quieter than his breathing. "It was an accident, I know that now but as a 12 year old….."

He shuts up after that, feeling that same guilt weigh down on his shoulders like it did that night so long ago. He closes his eyes, waiting to hear the sound of Ron's retreating footsteps.

He's somewhat surprised when he looks up and sees Ron still standing there, looking at him with wide-eyes, waiting for him to continue.

When Carl doesn't say anything, Ron does: "You were just a kid…."

It's not the first time someone has told that to Carl, but it is the first time it's been comforting.

"I didn't mean to," Carl mutters, closing his eyes again. "Earlier that day, I'd wandered off into the woods by myself, I'd stolen one of Daryl's guns and I felt so fucking capable, I wanted to be anyway. I wanted to be able to protect myself and my mom and I just….wanted to b grown up, I don't know, I was a fucking stupid kid, ok? I…..was in the woods and I came across this walker stuck in this pit of mud. Thinking I was proving myself or whatever….I stood back and mocked it, pretended to shoot it even though back then I didn't even know how to take the fucking safety off. Anyway, after a few minutes the walker had been struggling enough that it got free, it grabbed at me….I freaked out, squirmed away, and ran. I didn't think about it after that…..not until that night anyway…..I woke up to hear screaming, bloody murder screaming…..my mom told me to wait in the room we shared with a few other people and ran outside to see what was going on….."

"You went out to see…."

"Yeah….my friend, all of ours friend, Dale….he'd had his stomach practically ripped in two. He was choking…..choking on his own blood and crying…...I could see his gut and his intestines…..I looked over at the walker they'd shot, the walker they'd found attacking Dale….I realized it was the one I'd been screwing around with earlier…."

"Carl…." Ron mutters in a hush of a voice that reminds Carl of how his mom used to sound when comforting him.

"Everyone was talking about taking him back to the house and having Hershel sew him up but…..we all knew he wouldn't make it, keeping him alive was just making him suffer…..Daryl shot him, released him…."

"You didn't kill him….you were just a kid…..you didn't know what you were doing."

"It still fucked me up….I wouldn't even touch guns after that. It took me a few weeks to get over it and the guilt never really went away…..it just stayed in me like a cold I've never really gotten over."

"It wasn't your fault," Ron whispers.

"I know but…..I still look back on it and wonder if he'd still be alive, still be with us if I hadn't gone into the woods that day…"

"That's reasonable but….he might be gone anyway, he might've died some other way. I know that's not, like, comforting, but….it's not your fault…..you didn't kill him…."

Carl lets out a little laugh and shakes his head, hair still hanging in his face like a shaggy curtain. "That's….that's the thing, Ron, I HAVE killed people. I've killed a lot of people….there was a time, between the fall of the prison and Terminus, where I was scared of myself, I didn't like what the fuck I was. I was disgusted with it and terrified of it. It's…..it's the weirdest feeling to go to sleep at night when you're fucking scared of yourself….."

There's another really heavy bout of silence between them, until Ron clears his throat. The noise makes Carl jump, makes his palms sweat as he's preparing to be degraded verbally and abandoned in a sea of gore and muck that he brought about himself.

"Who's the first person you killed?" Ron asks, voice still a whisper.

Carl bites his lip as he thinks back. "If you don't count Dale….there was this teenager….in the woods. It was...ok, uh, lemme try to decide where to start."

"Take your time," the same hush voice mumbles, surprisingly collected and calm.

"The Governor's group, like I said, had a lot of terrible run ins with us. He wanted the prison. He had a shit ton of people, there were only like ten of us. Imagine that, we know this fucking armada is coming for the twelve or something of us. So….we made a plan, we booby trapped the hallways in the back with firecrackers that would go off and scrae the intruders because it'd sound like gunshots. It'd disorient them, scare them. Only Glenn and Maggie stayed in the prison, positioned and ready to shoot at their vans when they ran out in fear after the firecrackers went off. The rest of us…..we were ordered to go out into the woods surrounding the prison and wait it out….I was with Beth and Hershel….I was on edge, I just hear all these people yelling and the firecrackers and people shooting at smoke…..after awhile we see this teenager running through the woods, he's got a gun. But...he's scared, he's really fucking scared…...he put his hands up when Hershel told him to and he was lowering his gun….I shot him…."

Ron stares in silence, Carl continuing to look down at his feet like a guilty child telling his teacher about how he got into a fight with another classmate.

"I….I told myself he was gonna kill us, I kept telling myself that to make the pain go away….I was in a bad place at the time with the Governor's attacks looming and our people getting killed by his and….I figured it was fair for me to do that since he'd killed my people. Hershel told me what I did was wrong but….I denied it. I didn't feel bad….until that night when I was alone...I started thinking about it...it didn't really evolve into full blown remorse for a few weeks, and it ate at me."

Carl once again waits for Ron to run away or yell obscenities at him, maybe even hit him in disgust or shove him away. He feels something in his chest burn and his throat feels like it's on fire, smoke drifting out through his nostrils and making his eyes damp.

"Who else?" Ron finally asks after a few seconds, it all sinking in slowly.

"I….I didn't really keep track….several people when the prison fell…..I just kept shooting…and….."

Ron waits a few seconds, waiting for Carl to finish before even allowing himself to react or say anything.

"My mom," Carl says, so quietly that Ron is barely able to hear him. "She...she was cut open in front of me, unconscious from the pain and blood loss…..that was right after Judith was born, Maggie and I had to...cut her open to get the baby out, my mom wasn't able to have me naturally so it was ridiculous to think, in hines sight, that she'd be able to have Judith naturally…..I shot her in the head."

Ron stares, unable to take his eyes of the shadow of a child in front of him, still not daring to look up, afraid to see the horrified expression on Ron's face. Afraid to be shunned and shamed.

"Carl….." Ron mutters, voice still nothing but a sigh of a breath, eyes burning a little. "Could you….could you look at me?"

"I….I can't," Carl admits, voice cracking. "I don't want to see you scared."

"Then look at me," Ron insists quietly. "I'm not…..I'm not scared."

Carl looks up at him, face paler than a ghost and brows knitted together, almost like he's mad, about to start screaming and yelling like he's offended by Ron's lack of fear.

"Why?" he asks, almost leering. He doesn't know why he feels so hot, like he's burning alive, but he does. "You SHOULD be scared!" he says, voice gradually getting louder and louder. "Don't you get it! I've KILLED people! Like, ended their lives. I've been nothing but a monster, killed an innocent person out of anger and been murderous enough to IMAGINE tearing other people apart and LIKING it. Feeling better by envisioning how I could get back at people who'd taken my loved ones from me. My dad, he's killed people. Michonne has killed people, Carol has killed people, we all have! I'm not saying it was right, I'm not saying it was wrong because your perspective gets really fucked up once you're out there, but you never have been, so unless you're totally in denial right now or something, you should be afraid or totally disgusted with me! I'd rather you blow up in my face now rather than this be some grenade effect and three days from now you get all weird and start blowing me off and treating me like a fucking psycho, ok?! Just tell me, be brutally honest, because I get it, ok? I hate that the people in these walls think we're deranged because I swear we're not, not anymore than anyone else out there right now anyway, but I understand what they mean. If you're just as freaked out as they are now, just fucking tell me."

Ron stares down at him for a minute, his eyes narrowed as if confused and his lip bleeding from how hard he's biting it. He slowly shakes his head, his eyes never leaving Carl's face, like the creepy eyes of paintings' that follow one across the room in a hypnotized manner.

"Ok…." he starts slowly, voice just above a whisper and languid. "I'm not gonna lie, it's a lot to take in. Ok? I'll be honest."

He pauses, watching Carl's eyes flicker back down to the pavement and his hands start to shake.

"But I'm not disgusted and I'm not scared," he says a little louder. "I'm not in denial, I know that most people would say that a fifteen year old talking about how he'd shot another kid and envisioned killing people and tearing them apart is totally insane. I get that but….that was before this stuff happened. I wasn't out there, so I honestly can't say I've done the same or anything similar. I….I think I sort of understand though. From what I hear about from people who've come in from the outside….I have an idea….probably kinda off and not nearly as horrific as it is, but I've got a clue…..and unlike almost everyone else in these walls, I know what you guys mean...why you did what you did without thinking you're psychopaths. It's, like I said, not exactly….familiar to me obviously, but….I think I understand….and I know there's things you still aren't telling me because you think I'll freak out, but like I promised last night, I won't. I promise…..even if everyone else in this town decides that you're family is the next Manson Family, I won't run off. Because….I KNOW you, ok? If you'd dropped this on me after we'd only be hanging out for a few days I probably would've freaked and run off but not now, I KNOW who you are. I KNOW Carl Grimes, and Carl Grimes is not a remorseless killer, not a monster, not insane or out of touch with reality!"

Carl tries to make sense of what Ron's saying, he thinks he must be hearing him wrong because….well…..Ron's a fucking idiot if he's just sort of ok with it, not ready to scream and yell or vomit. Just….a little disturbed admittedly but more than willing to listen to it and help Carl through it, and EAGER to learn more.

"So….." Carl drawls, only now noticing how much his hands are quaking and how cold the night air feels against his burning forehead. "You're fucking stupid…." he mutters. "Anyone who had common sense would've just run away screaming at the top of their lungs and never wanted to talk to me again and….you're still standing here talking to me."

"I told you that I was stupid last night."

Carl can't help but feel his lips, despite his best efforts to stop them, flicker up in the corners. "If you're stupid, then I'm pretty stupid too…"

"Carl, you're a fucking idiot," Ron says with a laugh, shaking his head. "I knew what you had to tell me wasn't gonna be easy shit, ok? I fucking knew that. I know you've been through hell and back and hell is nasty, uncivilized, and downright disturbing, ok? I'm ready for it, and I want you to be ok with yourself. I want you to stop shoving all this shit on yourself and carrying it by yourself and let me see….I'm not gonna be a jackass and make you talk, I'm no fucking therapist, but I know you feel alone and you're not...You're being too fucking hard on yourself, beating yourself up about shit that wasn't your fault and was out of your control or is over with and can't be changed. It was hard and it's easy to let those sorts of things consume you, but dude, I wanna help you sort it out, I think you need someone else too or you get slaughtered and devoured by it. You….you shouldn't get eaten by it anymore, you're not a monster and anyone that thinks you are only knows WHAT you did, they have no idea WHO the fuck you are, ok? You're not a monster, the world is a fucking beast now, you….like Carol was saying at lunch? About Eugene adapting? You gotta do that now from what I can understand, and you did. If you didn't, you'd be dead. You adapted…" Ron's voice slowly increases in volume as he goes on, by the end he's almost shouting, his eyes are still narrowed but they're alight with emotion Carl wishes he could understand. He uses his hands as he talks, like the more motion he uses the more clearly he can get his point across.

"It's the world's fault...you just did what you had to to live in it," Ron finishes off, voice a whisper again. He looks at the broken boy in front of him, trying his best to remain as emotionless and composed as possible.

They're both quiet for a few seconds after that, Carl's brain going a million miles an hour, still replaying what Ron said over and over and Ron letting out a few short spurts of breath and looking up at the sky as if blaming it for something heinous.

"You….you're not just saying that?" Carl asks cautiously, like a cat circling around the dog that just offered it acquaintanceship.

Ron looks at him blankly for a few seconds, the crickets chirping ringing around them loud as thunder. Ron just nods, serious in facial expression but eyes soft and the corners of his mouth stretching into the tiniest, sweetest smile Carl's ever seen.

"No," he says simply.

Carl feels a huge knot in his stomach that he wasn't aware of loosen. His shoulders droop down, he exhales a huge gust of breath he wasn't aware he'd been hoarding in his lungs, and his legs get a little weak.

"Thanks…" he mutters, letting out a tiny sigh

"Carl," Ron mutters. "Don't...don't feel like you've gotta hide things, ok?"

Carl's a little surprised to hear Ron's voice crack a little, like he's choked up. He doesn't look up.

"If you don't feel, like, comfortable reliving shit that's ok, I get it but...don't feel like you CAN'T share, ok? Like, am I making sense?"

Carl nods, still trying to stay stoic but feeling much more at ease. He looks up at Ron, not totally surprised to see that his eyes are glassy and he's glaring at the ground. He sniffles before looking back at Carl, they make eye contact for a split second.

Ron sighs as Carl looks back at the ground. "Ok….we….we were headed to check up on Tara before I got all nosy and made you spill your guts, right?" he asks with a tired smile.

Carl nods. As Ron starts to turn and start walking, a lump catches in his throat and he sort of hurriedly wraps his arms around Ron's torso and mushes himself up against him, burying his head awkwardly in Ron's armpit.

Carl is very aware that he sucks at emotions and everything emotion-related, but he's pretty sure this is an almost naive love and sense of gratitude he's feeling right now.

Ron awkwardly tries to hug him back, but they're positioned really oddly so it's a bit weird.

Ron snorts a little, trying his best to stop the tears from spilling down his cheeks. He's crying for Carl since he's too stubborn to cry for himself but he sure as hell isn't proud of it.

"You suck at hugs," he teases as Carl burrows his head further into Ron's arm pit.

Carl feels himself smile and giggle. "Shut up, you're the stupid one, not me."

"You just called yourself stupid like three minutes ago."

"You called yourself stupid first."

"You're the stupid one. You thought I was gonna be an asshole once you started talking."

"No, you're stupid, you thought I was gonna think you were weak and pathetic once yu started talking."

Ron just huffs as Carl pulls away from him and grins back at him. It's bizarre but it feels right that they go from being serious and soul-searching to being total goofball jack asses.

"Can I have my hat back now that I talked?" Carl asks, making a grab for said hat.

Ron laughs, whipping it out of his reach and teasingly holding it above his head again. "Maybe, ask nicely."

"Please give me my hat back…..asshole."

"Close enough," Ron says, smiling like an idiot and handing Carl his dumb hat back.

Carl smiles up at him, a weird sad and sweet smile that makes Ron's stomach squish up and clench, before putting his hat back on.

"Hey, uh Carl?" Ron mutters as they start walking. "When I asked who you killed and you said your mom? You...you didn't kill your mom, Carl…"

"I know," Carl replies quietly. It still burns like hell though. It doesn't as bad when Ron looks over at him, eyes soft and sympathetic, and sighs sadly, seeming to know Carl still aches.  
-

When they first get to the infirmary, Ron's about to tell Carl to wait outside while he pokes his head in to see if the surgery is still going on (something Ron has seen various graphic pictures of growing up when he used to look through his dad's portfolios and is more than familiar with), to make sure that if it is only he gets an eyeful of gore, when he remembers that Carl's seen someone get decapitated before and he assumes this probably wouldn't be the least bit traumatizing for him.

It doesn't matter anyway, they walk in and are greeted by Denise, who explains to them that Tara got out of surgery about forty minutes ago and is still unconscious but that she should be perfectly ok after several days of rest. She leads them back to the room where she's laid out, head bandaged so heavily that she could be mistaken for a mummy. Glenn, Maggie, Rosita, and Abraham crowd around her bed, waiting for her to wake up. Maggie holds her one still hand in her own, the four of them murmuring quietly as if talking too loudly will wake Tara up or disturb her. Her face is motionless and pale.

If Carl didn't know any better he'd think she was dead.

They don't stick around, Carl not in the mood to hang around in the infirmary all night, pretty exhausted and starting to feel….jittery. A little uneasy. He's not sure why, he IS not the least bit tuned into his emotions 90% of the time and has the hardest time understanding them when he tries, after all.

As the infirmary door closes behind them, Denise wishing them a good night (and offering Ron an ice pack for his bruised and swollen cheek) Ron grabs Carl by the arm and turns him around to face him.

"Are you ok?" He asks, giving him a look.

Carl nods, slipping his arm out of Ron's grip. "Yeah….why?"

"You….we were outta there really fast is all."

Carl shrugs. "I don't feel like sitting around waiting for her to wake up I guess….it's relieving to know she's supposed to be ok though…."

Ron goes to grab his arm, a little bolder than earlier, determined to not let Carl shy away now.  
"Something's bugging you."

Carl shrugs, sighing out and looking down at the infirmary porch floor.

"No, c'mon, I can't read your thoughts dude, help me out here," Ron insists softly.

Carl takes a second, swallowing a mouthful of saliva. "Just….I dunno….I feel kinda, like, nervous…"

Ron cocks his head to the side, trying to understand. If it were anyone else he'd think it was the sight of Tara with her head all bandaged up, he knows it's hard to see someone you care about hurt like that but it's Carl, the kid who's seen his friend with his stomach ripped open and several people torn to shreds by the living dead and bullets.

"Is it….is it Noah?" Ron suggests, trying his best to tune into Carl's emotions.

Carl shrugs. "I guess, I just….I don't know...I was distracted from it for awhile because I was busy being miserable with something else I guess," he mumbles with a sad smile, rubbing at his forearms.

Ron frowns. "You sort of just gave me an overview of what's….what's happened to you...maybe...if you, like, feel comfortable and think it might help you...maybe you should, like, spend some time thinking about Beth?" he suggests a little shakily, the bravery draining from him a bit as he hears Carl take an oddly shaky breath.

"I guess, I haven't really talked about her with anyone in awhile….we all just sort of...soldier on and try to forget about it. You can't stop and think about it out there, like I told you last night….I've been thinking about it a lot more here. We….we didn't really throw much of a funeral for her, we just buried her and said some stuff, prayers and personal things. We stood around the plot for a few minutes, about twenty, and then we had to move on. I really wish…." Carl cuts himself off, huffing out through his nose and looking over his shoulder.

"What?" Ron presses gently, taking a step towards him.

Carl shrugs, something Ron is discovering is a defense mechanism of sorts to keep from giving definite answers. "I…..I wish I had something of hers to remember her by, you know? She….she's one of the worst loses I've ever had. She was my friend, I really admired her and her….humanity and kindness. I wish I had something of hers with me, a picture of her, one of her jackets, one of her lockets. Something that I could….touch. When there's nothing left of them for you to...hold, nothing left that still smells like them it's hard to feel like…." Carl cuts himself off again and chewing on his lip.

"Feel like they're still with you?" Ron offers quietly.

"Yeah," Carl mutters, running a hand through his hair, still looking absently over his shoulder at nothing. "Like, I can talk about her and remember her but….I miss the sound of her voice, the way she looked gets a little fuzzy in my memory and….the way she smelt, I can't even remember very well anymore."

Ron takes a second to try and think of something to say, but he's never been very good at comforting people (whenever he had tried to comfort his mom he ended up just making her cry harder) so he's not entirely what to say.

It's a bit of a blessing that Ron's no good with his words though, because he doesn't stop to think about it too much, instead it just spills out, real and raw. Some find this annoying, thinking it makes him sound impulsive or unthoughtful, but Carl loves it. He thinks it makes Ron sound genuine and authentic.

"I….I have an idea," Ron mutters, reaching out and grabbing Carl's hand. He starts leading him down the porch stairs and back onto the street.

"What?" Carl asks, feeling his face flush as he and Ron walk down the dark road.

"You'll see," Ron mutters as they near the supply house.  
-

"Are you sure? Like….this might take awhile and your mom wanted you home hours ago."

"Carl, I'm at the point that no matter when I go home I'm gonna get bitched out," Ron replies with a warm smile as they make their way through the park and to the gazebo. "Take all the time you need."

Carl laughs a little under his breath. "I'm sorry, I sort of encouraged you to stay last night and didn't, like, tell you to go home today. I've been a bad influence."

Ron shakes his head. "Dude, we walked by my house like four times today and I didn't exactly go running to up to my front door."

"I just hope I don't get you into too much shit with your mom."

Ron shrugs as they walk up the gazebo stairs. "She'll be pissed but I think with what happened today she'll understand...kind of."

Carl smiles as they both sit on the floor across from each other. He's suddenly feeling a little nervous, his palms are sweaty and his heart is racing so fast it hurts. His mouth is dry and he can't bring himself to look at Ron, keeping his brim tilted down and over his eyes.

Ron digs the box of matches out from his jean pocket and uncaps the candle. He hands it over to Carl.

"You sure this one smelt the most like her? If you're not sure we can go back to the supply house and you can sniff them all again."

Carl shakes his head, swallowing again as he sets the candle on the floor between them. "No, this one's right."

Ron nods, reading the label on the pale pink candle again; 'Spring Air'. He nods, striking the match. As it ignites, Carl can't help but feel his own chest feel like it's being lit on fire and burning, a sulphuric taste in his mouth. He looks brave right now, looks stable and strong but he's really shaking, nervous and feeling grief ridden.

Ron picks up on this. He can feel it in the air, thick as tension and making him a little nervous too, and he didn't even know Beth. He wants this to help though, he wants this to make Carl just a little less anguished, help him deal with it.

"Alright," Ron mutters, holding the match to the candle wick. The flame barely breathes on the wick, just touches it, before the flame spreads and lights up the black wick with bright yellow and orange. Ron blows out the match and looks across him at Carl, the flame causing shadows to flicker across their faces.

"Start whenever you're ready," he says quietly, leaning forward slightly.

Carl swallows yet again, nothing in his mouth but dust around Beth's name. "Ok," he whispers, his voice coming out much more rickety than he'd liked it to. He clears his dry throat before taking in a deep breath, eyes fixated on the flickering flame.

"Hey, Beth…" he mutters, voice still weak. He tries clearing his throat again. "Uh….you've been gone for a few months now. You always wanted us to find a safe, secure place. Somewhere we could call home. I really think we might have found it, like, it's not perfect, a lot of the people here are ignorant, un-exposed...they don't trust us and that's not good at all but...it's got sturdy walls and a lot of us are pretty sure this might just work out for us. I'd like to say I do too but that'd be pretty positive for me, right? Anyway….you'd like it here. Not just because of the secure walls...you'd like that we can be, like….human again here. You were good at keeping your humanity and stuff so you'd love it. I….I've had trouble but it's not so bad now. I think you'd like to work the supply house and help with the domestic stuff, you always really liked that kinda stuff anyway. You'd love watching all the kids playing without fear in the streets here, love watching everyone sleep in in the mornings in warm beds, get up to prepare a decent breakfast in a nice kitchen, take a warm shower and brush our teeth in the bathroom, and take advantage of our spare time with dumb stuff like card games and napping. I wish you'd made it here with us. I'm not the only one obviously, everyone else wishes you'd made it here too, especially Maggie and Daryl. Maggie still cries about it sometimes, she claims she doesn't but I've caught her...twice. Daryl was real depressed when we lost you, he got into this funk and he still hasn't totally gotten out of it. Anyway….everyone misses you a lot. You spent so much time taking care of Judith….I hope she somehow has some memories of you, even though she's so young. I know she's just a baby but she misses you too. I can tell, ok? So don't put logic into it and argue even though that was always what I did…...this place here was what you always wanted for us, and it's not the same with you gone. I don't really believe in the afterlife or any of that, but….if there is one….we lost Tyreese just a week or so after you and we lost Noah today. Just thought you should know I guess. I miss your singing, I miss those mornings where I'd wake up in my cell and hear you down the hall singing. You had a really pretty voice, soothing too. I...I hate thinking that I'll never get to hear it again. I miss talking to you too….you knew I was going down a bad road there, knew when no one else did how bad I was hurting and you gave me a lot to consider, made me more thoughtful about what I was doing. I'll never know how you kept your humanity and idealistic views. I won't because everyone else lost them, but you never did. And you never lost hope in a better tomorrow, you always thought it'd get better, thought we all had something to live for, even after we'd lost so much shit. I just…." Carl pauses to sigh.

"I miss you. And what you did? It was freaking stupid, ok? I get that you were mad, you knew we were being swindled and shit, Dawn changed the deal but….why'd you have to stab her? Why? You had a pair of scissors, she had a gun! Like, who the hell does that?! That sounds like something Merle would've done….bringing a knife to a gunfight basically. I didn't see it coming. I really, really fucking thought we were gonna walk out of that messed up hospital with you. Well….we did, but I thought you'd be alive….I thought, when you turned on Dawn, that you might say something poetically justice, that would've been like you. I never thought you'd stab her. When she shot you, I jumped. No one did anything for a good two minutes, we all just stared at you laying limp on the floor," Carl says, starting to sound a little angry, aggressively swiping the back of his hand across his eyes and sniffling. "Then Daryl shot Dawn and we were gonna start shooting at the rest of them but this woman stopped us, pointed out that'd only been between her and you….I was still mad. I had dreams all that week were I shot them all down, mowed them down like grass. I know you wouldn't, like, approve of that but I was pissed. You were my friend. They killed you. They kidnapped you. They wouldn't let you leave. You gave me some of the greatest memories I have….I'll never forget that time you and I got into a snowball fight in the prison yard or that other time when you let me just hang out in your cell at like three in the morning after my mom died. You were so nice to everyone, and it was kind of contagious, no matter how annoying. Like, after someone spent too much time with you they'd suddenly act like ten times friendlier and more patient. You were one of the few good people. If anyone should still be here who's not, it should be you. I miss you, I really fucking miss you. Everyone misses you. I miss your voice, I miss hearing you sing or being able to talk to you. Sometimes I can't totally remember what you look like. Like, I can still picture you but the specific facial features are a little blurry. I wish I had something to remember you by, something of yours. I'm sorry we didn't spend so long on your funeral but we had to keep moving….you know how that works. I don't think you'd really care anyway...you'd just want us to stay safe and be happy again. Well….we found what you'd always wanted," Carl pauses again, sniffling and once again swiping his hand across his eyes.

"It's good but it'd be better if you were here too. I'm sorry that we didn't preserve ourselves all that well. I know I've done bad things, I know I have serious lapses in judgment and that you'd be disappointed in some of the shit I've done and failed to do, but….I do what I have to do and I'll stand by that until I die. I miss you. Sometimes I forget you aren't here anymore and go to talk to you…..you'd be excited, I overheard Maggie talking to Michonne about trying to have a baby, I just know how much that'd excite you. You'd be bouncing around the house, preparing for it already even though it's months away, if not longer, from even being a possibility. So…. I feel sort of stupid doing this but it's making me feel better….I think, I don't know if stuff that makes you feel better is supposed to make you cry or not but...I miss you, and….you should be here with us, in Alexandria behind these walls, planning the future you were always so enthusiastic about instead of in the ground somewhere back in Georgia. You shouldn't have stabbed her….but...we all do stupid things I guess. Ok…" Carl awkwardly leans forward and blows out the dancing flame. The smoke rises up from it, the scent burning his eyes.

Ron sits across from him in absolute silence. He's not sure what to say now, not sure what to do. He puts the lid back on the candle, trapping the smoke inside of it and making it look like an oracle.

He hears Carl sniffle again and winces. He's never seen Carl cry, he seems pretty weathered, hard to break or at least hard to breach. He's closed off, that mask of apathy almost always present and his eyes hidden. He doesn't talk about it, much less outwardly express it. Ron assumes it's the life he's been living, you don't really have time to mourn or feel remorse with the living dead staggering around and other people running around with guns and knives, out for blood. He assumes that sort of life made Carl the robot he is, programmed to eat, sleep, fight, scavenge, and run. He's neglected all those gross emotions, ignored them as much as possible, learnt to skirt around them. But the more he suffers, the more he loses, the bigger the hole inside him gets and the more detouring he has to do to get around it until it's inevitable.

Ron has a feeling the night Carl got here, he fell into that hole.

"Thanks," Carl mutters, swiping at his eyes again and trying to hide behind his hat.

Ron just smiles and nods before clearing his throat when he realizes it's too dark for Carl to see him with the candle out. "No problem," he whispers.

Neither of them moves, not wanting to break the strange sort of perfect stillness between them. Carl accidentally shakes it though with his sniffling and the sound of his boots scraping across the wooden planks as he shifts, trying to hide his face, despite the dark. He hates that he's crying, he hates his tears. He hates crying because it makes him feel weak, like he's defeated and the world wins.

"Are you ok?" Ron mutters, bloodshot tired eyes staring across at the darkness in front of him.

"Yeah," Carl replies, clearing his throat and trying to keep his voice steady.

Ron awkwardly uncaps the candle again, feeling bad for re-lighting the candle, feeling like it's almost disrespectful to relight it and that somewhere Beth's spirit would get mad or feel offended, but they need to see and Ron didn't think this thoroughly enough to bring a flashlight or a second candle. Ron voices this concern as he lights the candle for the second time,and Carl laughs.

"Beth wouldn't care," Carl says with a little laugh. "She'd just feel….loved because I did this for her."

Ron smiles sadly. "I wish I'd met her. She sounds like a wonderful person, like she made this planet just a little bit less shitty and so much more warm."

Carl nods, cover his face completely as there's light to see again. "She was," he mumbles into his forearms.

Ron frowns sadly, the flame casting a shadow across his face and flickering in his eyes making them more of an amber than brown.

"Hey…" he mutters. "You...you ok?"

"Yeah," Carl mutters, still hiding his face behind his hat and his hands, folding into himself and burying his head between his knees.

"You sure?" Ron asks, cringing after he asks and feeling slightly annoying.

To his surprise, Carl laughs, the sound muffled and distorted by his hands and knees. "You know," he mutters into his knee. "I honestly don't fucking know."

Ron feels his lips flicker, like the flame, into a sad smile. He doesn't know how exactly to respond, he knows how his friend feels. He crawls around the candle on his hands and knees and seats himself next to Carl, his fingers twitching as he mentally debates whether or not touching him is a good idea right now.

"You know...tears can be a good thing," he says quietly. "My dad told me once that when we cry our bodies release endorphins. So...we're, like, supposed to cry sometimes."

"I hate crying," Carl replies flatly sniffling again. "I hate how it makes me feel. It fucking sucks."

"How does it make you feel."

"Like….exposed? Vulnerable, weak. I'm not supposed to cry anymore, ok? Like, so much shit has went down that I'm supposed to be immune now, I'm not supposed to care, or if I do, not get hung up on it and lose my shit."

"It sounds like you don't want to be human," Ron observes, gingerly tilting the brim of his hat up. "Dude, humans feel things. We don't want to and it's the world's biggest inconvenience but...we feel shit and it hurts like hell. You're human. If you don't feel stuff any more...you've officially lost your humanity, you're a cyborg."

"You sound like Michonne," Carl mutters, recalling various situations where Michonne told him similar things.

Ron smiles and chuckles. "I'll take that as a compliment."

Carl sighs, wiping at his watery eyes one last time before sitting up. He still doesn't make eye contact, choosing to look into the candle's flame again.

"So...you've had enough time to let the shit I told you earlier sink in….you still not ready to abandon ship?" he asks with a slight smirk on his face.

Ron smiles. "Nope, I'm going down with it."

Carl's smirk grows into a smile at his friend's words. "You're stupid…" he mutters, shaking his head.

"You are too, dumbass," Ron replies, smiling over at him. He awkwardly rubs the back of his neck, trying to think of what to say. "So….do you like...need a hug?"

Carl looks over at him, the smile looking so out of place with the tear stained face. "I thought I sucked at hugs."

Ron shrugs. "I think I'll survive."

Carl giggles and sniffles before letting Ron wrap his arms around his shoulders and pull him close, his side resting against Ron's chest. He blinks any remaining tears out of his eyes as he nuzzles his head into Ron's shoulders. He lets out a little sigh: he's exhausted. It's been a jam packed 24 hours for them and they could honestly fall asleep like this. Ron brushes Carl's dumb hat off his head with his chin since it's being annoying as fuck and getting in the way. Carl feels content, listening to Ron's steady breathing. He lets his eyes slide closed for a few minutes, feeling warm decently ok. He doesn't think it's the endorphins though, it's just Ron.

"We need to get you home," Carl finally mumbles with a sigh, starting to pull away and sit up. "Your mom is gonna fucking kill you if you aren't home when she wakes up tomorrow. You can't be gone for two days straight….as much as I'd like to keep you," Carl adds with a tiny smile.

Ron groans but nods in agreement. "Yeah, yeah," he mutters, starting to stand up. He's about to lean over and pick up the candle when he sees Carl standing there; hair a fucking mess with some grass in it from the previous night, face all wet with tears, bags under red eyes, jeans that are like three sizes too big for him, and quivering hands. Ron can't help but pause to smile at him, the flickering flame still making the shadows dance across their faces and around in their eyes.

"What are you looking at?" Carl asks with a little laugh.

Ron smiles back at him and takes a second to glance at the ground as he runs a hand through his hair, just as messed up. "Just you," he replies. "You look like a fucking mess."

Carl grins, wiping at his eyes. "You look like a mess too, asshole."

Ron smiles and shakes his head. "Whatever, you're the one who sucks at hugs."

"You're stupid," Carl replies with a smile. His eyes suddenly lose their light but his smile remains, it just shrinks. "Um….thanks...for the candle idea? And, like, staying here and all?"

"No need to thank me, moron."

Carl shakes his head, smiling sadly down at the floor. "I know it's fucked up, ok? The world is now but….almost everyone else within these walls….if they heard me talking about that shit...they'd think I was a fucking psychopath or that….I don't know, there's something really wrong with me. Sometimes I think there's something wrong with me myself and….I don't know what the fuck I'm trying to say, I'm tired, sorry."

Ron smiles sadly at him. "You're not a psychopath. You're an amazing person. You just need to see that yourself."

Carl smiles wider. "I think I'd be the cockiest person alive if I saw it, so maybe it's a good thing that I don't. You wouldn't be able to stand me."

Ron laughs. "I already can't stand you, shut up."

Carl chuckles, eyes bright again but broken. "You're stupid…."

Ron feels his heart leap up into his throat as he takes a step towards him and shrugs comically. "Hey, I don't go around dressed as a cowboy."

Carl giggles, shaking his head and giving Ron a shove. "I made it very clear to you last night, it's not a cowboy hat, asshole! You're just jealous because you're hat is the stupid one."

"Is not," Ron retaliates with a grin, bending down to pick Carl's hat off the ground and placing it on his own head.

"Whoa! You look even dumber than you usually do, I didn't think that was possible, Ron!" Carl says with mock shock and a giggle.

Ron jokingly scowls and take the hat off, placing it back on Carl's head and smiling as he watches the shorter boy adjust it to his liking.

"You look stupid too."

"Do not, I wear it perfectly, you admitted that last night," Carl says with a triumphant smile.

Ron rolls his eyes, grinning ear to ear. "Whatever, Clint Eastwood," he huffs. He pauses again, just looking at him.

"Seriously," Carl asks through a yawn. "What's with you and staring tonight, asshole? You so tired that you're just falling asleep on your feet?"

Ron smiles at him before shrugging, looking bashfully at the floor. "Just...admiring you and all of your stupidity."

Carl smiles as he bends down to pick up the candle. "Gee, thanks. You're so kind."

Ron shrugs as they walk down the steps, the candle their only light to guide them. "I try," Ron says with a smile.

Carl laughs before he smiles over his shoulder at him. "Hey….um….you know how you asked me earlier where my favorite place had been?"

"Yeah?"

"I think….I think this might be...be my favorite place," he says, almost shyly as he quickly turns to look back in front of him.

Ron smiles, a bit of heat rising to his face. "Why? We don't have any chickens for you to feed, no animals at all actually, and a lot of the people here don't want you here, no offense."

Carl shrugs, taking a few minutes to respond, the two of them moving through the dark town in silence besides the loud dubstep blasting for the Monroe's big brick house.

"Yeah, but you're here," Carl says rather quietly as they reach the Anderson's house.

Ron smiles rather timidly. "I'm not that great. Not compared to fucking chickens and cows anyway."

Carl smiles at him, his nose crinkling and his eyes brighter than the flame eating up the wick. "Shut up, stupid. Get inside before your mom actually goes on a manhunt all over town for you. I'll see you soon."

Ron smiles and nods. "Yeah…..douchebag," he mutters as Carl sets the candle down again so that he can get one last hug before they depart.

"Hope you're just as classy tomorrow," Carl says with a snort as Ron starts to walk up his porch stairs and he starts to walk down the steps.

Ron smiles to himself as he starts to turn the doorknob to his front door, feeling light and happy and fucking tired, and drowsy but energetic, and eager and a little hopeful and fucking depressed too because, fuck, his life kind of sucks and so does Carl's and everyone else's and shit happens, and really, really fucking happy even though he cried like twice today….. and he realizes that the reason for all of these emotions is wandering down the street on his way home, slipping through his fingers as he once again….

"Fuck," Ron mutters, feeling his hand grow sweaty as it grips the doorknob. He knows what happens out there even though he is naive to it yet, but his understanding of it is basic enough to get the 'you live as much as you can until your luck runs out' message across. He knows that he's screwing this up, bottling it up. Who really knows if this place'll last, hell, Carl's lived in soooooo many places it makes him seriously doubt it, and sooooo many people have died, fuck, who's to say one of them isn't next in line for Grim Reaper's Row. He swallows thickly, once again knowing this is how he feels, and he hopes he makes Carl at least FEEL again and he REALLY hopes that this isn't about to fuck everything up that just finally managed to finally fall into place; with Carl talking and him feeling safe and both of them finding something it seems in the other, but….Ron's done pussying out, done swallowing it. Done now that he realizes that in that last 24 hours the two of them have literally led the other into some of the darkest recesses of themselves, an unexplored area.

Ron takes in a deep breath, the logical part of his brain knowing that he's probably just over emotional because he's so tired and stressed but…..fuck it.

"Shit!" Ron whispers before sprint down from his porch and up the street. "Carl! Carl!" He yells as he jogs down the street.

Carl looks over his shoulder, eyebrows narrowed, looking surprised to see Ron sprinting down the street after him. "What?!" He shouts back.

"I'm a fucking idiot!" Ron screams as he gets closer. "I really am!"

Carl laughs and shakes his head. "I knew that, asshole!"

Ron stops in front of him, out of breath and just looking at him. "And….I'm sorry….for being an idiot….I'm not sure how I mean that yet….but I'm about….to find out…..whether I mean it by…..'I'm sorry for not growing a pair of balls and doing this sooner'...or 'I'm sorry for fucking this up'...ok?" Ron pants out, a dead serious look on his face.

Carl stares at him in confusion, setting the candle down on the porch railing beside them. The only sound as Ron straightens up and looks right at him is the dubstep in the background and the goddamn crickets. The only light is the candle and the much less romantic porch lights around them.

Carl's about to ask Ron what the hell he means, ask him if he's ok, see what's going on, when he all of a sudden is seriously overwhelmed with Ron's scent. It's not bad, not at all, but it's all up in his face, and he can feel Ron's breath dancing along his upper lip and feels the weight of his arms wrapped around his shoulders. There's a strange pressure on his lips that makes his heart stop in his chest and fall into his stomach like a mushy ball of blood and muscle and he's so close to Ron, so fucking close to him that it's like they're connected.

It takes Carl about 7 seconds to realize he's being kissed.


End file.
